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I  C.  CHAPMAN.  Oi 


EYENINGS    AT    HOME; 


OR, 


THE  JUVENILE  BUDGET  OPENED. 


BY  DR.  AIKIN  AND  MRS.  BARBAULD. 


mebfseH  BfcftfQtt. 


PROM    THE    FIFTEENTH    LONDON    EDITION. 


ILLUSTRATED  WITH  ENGRAVINGS  AFTER  HARVEY  AND  CHAPMAN,  BY  ADAM& 


NEW    YORK: 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS, 
82    CLIFF    STREET. 


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q/>r 


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•    •  •  .*    ••  ■••••• ' 


GIFT 


PREFACE  BY  THE  AMERICAN  PUBLISHERS. 


In  presenting  to  the  American  public  this  new  and  beautiful  edition  ot 
a  work  that  has  been  established  as  a  favourite  for  nearly  half  a  century, 
the  publishers  do  not  think  it  needful  to  enlarge  upon  its  merits,  or  to 
point  out  the  attractions  which  have  secured  for  it  a  popularity  so  univer- 
sal and  long  continued.  Fifteen_editions  in  England,  and  probably  an 
equal  or  greater  number  in  this  country,  have  already  borne  testimony  in 
that  behalf,  much  stronger  than  any  praises  which  they  can  bestow.  Yet 
they  may  be  permitted  briefly  to  suggest  a  comparison  between  this  charm- 
ing specimen  of  the  good  old  school,  and  most  of  the  illustrated  works  that 
have  recently  been  brought  out  in  such  profusion,  professedly  for  the 
entertainment  and  instruction  of  youth ;  works,  in  the  majority  of  which 
there  is  exhibited  so  little  of  that  peculiar  talent  required  for  imparting 
instruction  with  entertainment,  and  so  little  judgment  in  the  choice  of 
subjects,  as  well  as  in  the  manner  of  dealing  with  them.  The  great  defect 
of  these  books — at  least  the  greater  portion  of  them — is  the  total  want  of 
pure  and  unaffected  simplicity ;  the  principal  characteristic  of  well- 
trained  youth,  and  therefore  indispensable  in  everything  designed  for 
youthful  readers.  Multitudes  of  authors  have  written,  of  late  years,  for 
childhood ;  but  small,  indeed,  is  the  number  of  those  who,  like  Mrs.  Bar- 
bauld  and  Dr.  Aikin,  possess  the  faculty  of  adaptation  to  the  tastes  and 
intellects  of  children  ;  and  in  the  effort  to  make  books  suited  to  those  tastes 


Ml4i 130 


4  PREFACE. 

and  intellects,  they  succeed  only  in  producing  things  too  puerile  for 
grown-up  people,  and  so  tainted  with  the  affectation  of  simplicity  that  the 
natural  feelings  of  the  child  can  give  to  them  no  sympathy.  And  it  would 
be  a  subject  for  rejoicing  if  this  were  the  worst  or  only  fault  with  which 
some  of  them  are  chargeable. 

The  nearest  approach  to  perfection  that  a  book  written  for  young  peo- 
ple can  make,  is  to  give  the  idea  of  having  been  written  by  one  of  them. 
When  a  child  reads  a  story,  and  fancies  that  he  could  write  just  such 
another,  we  may  be  sure  that  the  author  has  hit  the  mark.  This  test  of 
excellence  the  "  Evenings  at  Home"  bears  with  a  success  unrivalled,  as 
must  be  within  the  experience  of  many  parents.  There  is  scarcely  anoth- 
er book  ever  placed  in  the  hands  of  children,  from  the  age  of  four  or  five 
years  to  that  of  twelve  or  fourteen,  which  they  read  with  so  much  delight, 
or  remember  so  long  and  well,  or  by  which  tney  are  so  strongly  incited  to 
the  attempt  at  composition. 

Knowing  the  excellence  of  the  work,  and  its  enduring  popularity,  the 
publishers  have  thought  it  worthy  of  a  better  style  of  publication  than  it 
has  ever  enjoyed  in  this  country ;  they  have  therefore  brougnt  out  this 
handsome  edition  on  the  best  of  paper,  and  for  its  embellishment  secured 
the  valuable  services  of  the  same  unrivalled  engraver  on  wood  who  illus- 
trated their  "Fairy  Book,"  and  their  editions  of  "  Robinson  Crusoe,"  the 
u  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  the  "  Life  of  Christ,"  &c. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  FIFTEENTH  LONDON  EDITION. 


The  thirteenth  edition  of  "Evenings  at  Home,"  a  work  which  has  not 
been  superseded  in  general  estimation  by  any  later  publication  for  the 
instruction  and  amusement  of  youth,  appeared  in  1823,  enriched  with  the 
addition  of  some  new  pieces,  and  carefully  revised  and  corrected 
throughout  by  Mr.  Arthur  Aikin.  Since  that  time,  its  venerable  author, 
and  his  distinguished  sister  and  coadjutor,  have  both  paid  the  debt  of 
nature  ;  and  it  appears  proper  to  introduce  this  posthumous  republication, 
by  an  account  of  their  respective  shares  in  its  production.  The  plan, 
then,  of  the  work  originated  solely  with  Dr.  Aikin ;  the  Introduction  and 
Epilogue  are  both  his,  and  about  eleven  parts  in  twelve  of  the  whole. 
The  pieces  written  by  Mrs.  Barbauld,  including  one  found  among  her 
papers,  and  now  first  printed,  are,  the  Young  Mouse  :  the  Wasp  and  Bee ; 
Alfred,  a  Drama  ;  Animals  and  their  Countries  ;  Canute's  Reproof  to  his 
Courtiers ;  the  Mask  of  Nature ;  Things  by  their  Right  Names ;  the 
Goose  and  Horse ;  On  Manufactures ;  the  Flying-Fish  ;  a  Lesson  on  the 
Art  of  Distinguishing;  the  Phenix  and  Dove;  the  Manufacture  of 
Paper;  the  Four  Sisters ;  and  Live  Dolls; — amounting  to  fifteen  out  of 
one  hundred  and  one. 

A  new  arrangement  of  the  matter  has  been  followed  in  this  edition,  for 
which  the  editor  is  answerable.  Her  father  was  precluded  from  attending 
to  this  point  in  the  first  instance,  by  the  manner  in  which  the  work  grew 
under  his  hand.  The  volumes  came  out  one  or  two  at  a  time,  with  an 
interval  of  several  years  between  the  earliest  and  the  latest.  He  did  not 
at  first  contemplate  so  extensive  a  work ;  but  his  invention  flowed  freely 
— the  applause  of  parents  and  the  delight  of  children  invited  him  to 
proceed;  the  slight  thread  by  which  he  had  connected  the  pieces  was 


6  PREFACE. 

capable  of  being  drawn  out  indefinitely,  and  the  plan  was  confessedlv 
that  of  a  miscellany.  Under  these  circumstances,  it  appeared  allowable 
on  a  view  of  the  whole  work,  to  change  the  order,  so  as  to  conduct  the 
young  reader,  in  a  gentle  progress,  from  the  easier  pieces  to  the  more 
difficult;  or  rather,  to  adapt  the  different  volumes  to  different  ages,  by 
which  the  inconvenience  might  be  avoided  of  either  putting  the  whole 
set  into  the  hands  of  a  child,  while  one  portion  of  its  contents  would  not 
be  intelligible  to  him,  or  withholding  the  whole  until  another  portion 
should  have  ceased  to  be  interesting.  This  idea  the  editor  has,  to  the 
best  of  her  ability,  put  in  execution.  Should  she  thus  be  the  humble 
means  of  extending,  in  any  degree,  the  influence  of  her  father's  wisdom 
arid  genius — of  his  extensive  knowledge,  his  manly  principles,  and  his 
genuine  benevolence  and  tenderness  of  heart — her  pains  will  be  amply 
rewarded. 


CONTENTS. 


Introduction 

page    9 

The  Young  Mouse 

11 

The  Wasp  and  Bee 

12 

The  Goose  and  Horse  . 

12 

The  Flying-Fish 

13 

The  Little  Dog      . 

14 

Travellers'  Wonders 

15 

The  Discontented  Squirrel 

19 

On  the  Marten      . 

22 

Mouse,  Lapdog,  and  Monkey 

24 

Animals  and  their  Countries 

25 

The  Mask  of  Nature     . 

25 

The  Farmyard  Journal 

27 

The  Price  of  Pleasure 

30 

The  Rat  with  a  Bell      . 

32 

The  Dog  balked  of  his  Dinner 

33 

The  Kid 

36 

How  to  make  the  Best  of  it 

39 

Order  and  Disorder 

40 

Live  Dolls 

43 

The  Hog  and  other  Animals 

46 

The  Bullies           . 

49 

The  Travelled  Ant 

50 

The  Colonists        . 

56 

The  Dog  and  his  Relations 

60 

The  History  and  Adventures  of  a 

Cat   62 

Canute's  Reproof  to  his  Courtiers 

67 

On  Things  to  be  Learned 

68 

On  the  Oak           . 

74 

Alfred             

80 

On  the  Pine  and  Fir  Tribe    . 

85 

On  Different  Stations  in  Life 

The  Rookery 

The  Ship       .... 

Things  by  their  Right  Names 

The  Transmigrations  of  Indur 

The  Swallow  and  Tortoise  . 

The  Grass-Tribe   . 

A  Tea-Lecture 

The  Kidnappers    . 

On  Manufactures  . 

On  the  Art  of  Distinguishing 

The  Phenix  and  Dove 

The  Manufacture  of  Paper 

The  Two  Robbers 

The  Council  of  Quadrupeds 

Tit  for  Tat     .... 

On  Wines  and  Spirits 

The  Boy  without  a  Genius    . 

Half  a  Crown's  Worth 

Trial      . 

The  Leguminous  Plants 

On  Man         .... 

Walking  the  Streets 

The  Compound-Flowered  Plants 

Presence  of  Mind 

Phaeton  Junior 

Why  an  Apple  falls 

Nature  and  Education  . 

Aversion  subdued 

The  Little  Philosopher 

What  Animals  are  made  for 


H 
97 
103 
105 
117 
119 
122 
126 
129 
138 
144 
145 
143 
150 
158 
160 
166 
170 
172 
179 
183 
187 
189 
192 
198 
203 
206 
207 
213 
216 


CONTENTS. 


True  Heroism 

219 

On  Metals     .... 

222 

Flying  and  Swimming 

230 

The  Female  Choic 

232 

On  Metals      .... 

234 

Eyes  and  No  Eyes 

242 

Why  the  Earth  moves  round  the  Sun  249 

The  Umbelliferous  Plants 

252 

Humble  Life,  or  the  Cottagers 

256 

The  Birthday  Gift 

261 

On  Earths  and  Stones 

263 

Show  and  Use,  or  the  Two  Presents    275 

The  Cruciform -Flowered  Plants 

277 

The  Native  Village 

281 

Perseverance  against  Fortune 

287 

The  Goldfinch  and  Linnet    . 

297 

The  Price  of  &  Victory 

300 

Good  Company    . 

304 

The  Wanderer's  Return 

306 

Difference  and  Agreement,  or  Sunday 

Morning         ....  312 

The  Landlord's  Visit     ...  314 

On  Emblems         ....  320 

Led  yard's  Praise  of  Women         .  325 

Generous  Revenge        .        .        .  327 

The  Power  of  Habit     ...  330 

The  Cost  of  a  War        ...  333 

Great  Men 337 

The  Four  Sisters  ...  341 

The  Gain  of  a  Loss      ...  344 

Wise  Men 346 

A  Friend  in  Need  ...  349 

Earth  and  her  Children         .        .  357 

A  Secret  Character  Unveiled         .  359 

A  Globe-Lecture    ....  367 

Envy  and  Emulation    .        .  375 

Providence,  or  the  Shipwreck       .  377 

Epilogue 382 


INTRODUCTION 


The  mansion-house  of  the  pleasant  village  of  Beechgrove,  was 
mnabited  by  the  family  of  Fairborne,  consisting  of  the  master  and 
mistress,  and  a  numerous  progeny  of  children  of  both  sexes.  Of  these, 
part  were  educated  at  home  under  their  parents'  care,  and  part  were  sent 
out  to  school.  The  house  was  seldom  unprovided  with  visiters,  the 
intimate  friends  or  relations  of  the  owners,  who  were  entertained  with 
cheerfulness  and  hospitality,  free  from  ceremony  and  parade.  They 
formed,  during  their  stay,  part  of  the  family ;  and  were  ready  to 
concur  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fairborne  in  any  little  domestic  plan  for 
varying  their  amusements,  and  particularly  for  promoting  the  instruction 

1* 


10  INTRODUCTION. 

and  entertainment  of  the  younger  part  of  the  household.  As  some  of 
them  were  accustomed  to  writing,  they  would  frequently  produce  a  fable, 
a  story,  or  dialogue,  adapted  to  the  age  and  understanding  of  the  young 
people.  It  was  always  considered  as  a  high  favour  when  they  would  so 
employ  themselves  ;  and  when  the  pieces  were  once  read  over,  they  were 
carefully  deposited  by  Mrs.  Fairborne  in  a  box,  of  which  she  kept  the 
key.  None  of  these  were  allowed  to  be  taken  out  again  till  all  the  children 
were  assembled  in  the  holydays.  It  was  then  made  one  of  the  evening 
amusements  of  the  family  to  rummage  the  budget,  as  their  phrase  was. 
One  of  the  least  children  was  sent  to  the  box,  who  putting  in  its  little 
hand,  drew  out  the  paper  that  came  next,  and  brought  it  into  the  parlour 
This  was  then  read  distinctly  by  one  of  the  older  ones ;  and  after  it  had 
undergone  sufficient  consideration,  another  little  messenger  was  despatched 
for  a  fresh  supply ;  and  so  on,  till  as  much  time  had  been  spent  in  this 
manner  as  the  parents  thought  proper.  Other  children  were  admitted  to 
these  readings;  and  as  the  Budget  of  Beechgrove  Hall  became  somewhat 
celebrated  in  the  neighbourhood,  its  proprietors  were  at  length  urged  to 
lay  it  open  to  the  public.  They  were  induced  to  comply;  and  thus, 
without  further  preface,  begins  the  "  First  Evening." 


EVENING  I. 


THE  YOUNG  MOUSE.— A  Fable. 

A  young  mouse  lived  in  a  cupboard  where  sweetmeats  were  kept ;  she 
dined  every  day  upon  biscuit,  marmalade,  or  fine  sugar.  Never  had  any 
little  mouse  lived  so  well.  She  had  often  ventured  to  peep  at  the  family 
while  they  sat  at  supper;  nay,  she  had  sometimes  stolen  down  on  the 
carpet,  and  picked  up  the  crumbs,  and  nobody  had  ever  hurt  her.  She 
would  have  been  quite  happy,  but  that  she  was  sometimes  frightened  by 
the  cat,  and  then  she  ran  trembling  to  the  hole  behind  the  wainscot.  One 
day  she  came  running  to  her  mother  in  great  joy.     "Mother,"  said  she, 

11 


J2  FIRST    EVENING. 

"  the  good  people  of  this  family  have  built  me  a  house  to  live  m ;  it  is  in 
the  cupboard:  I  am  sure  it  is  for  me,  for  it  is  just  big  enough:  the  bottom 
is  of  wood,  and  it  is  covered  all  over  with  wires  !  and  I  dare  say  they 
have  made  it  on  purpose  to  screen  me  from  that  terrible  cat,  which  ran 
after  me  so  often  ;  there  is  an  entrance  just  big  enough  for  me,  but  puss 
cannot  follow;  and  they  have  been  so  good  as  to  put  in  some  toasted 
cheese,  which  smells  so  deliciously,  that  I  should  have  run  in  directly  and 
taken  possession  of  my  new  house,  but  I  thought  I  would  tell  you  first, 
that  we  might  go  in  together,  and  both  lodge  there  to-night,  for  it  will 
hold  us  both. " 

"My  dear  child,"  said  the  old  mouse,  "it  is  most  happy  that  you  did 
not  go  in,  for  this  house  is  called  a  trap,  and  you  would  never  have  come 
out  again,  except  to  have  been  devoured,  or  put  to  death  in  some  way  or 
other.  Though  man  has  not  so  fierce  a  look  as  a  cat,  he  is  as  much  our 
enemy,  and  has  still  more  cunning." 

THE  WASP  AND  BEE.— A  Fable. 

A  wasp  met  a  bee,  and  said  to  him,  "  Pray,  can  you  tell  me  what  is  the 
reason  that  men  are  so  ill-natured  to  me,  while  they  are  so  fond  of 
you  ?  We  are  both  very  much  alike,  only  that  the  broad  golden  rings 
about  my  body  make  me  much  handsomer  than  you  are :  we  are  both 
winged  insects,  we  both  love  honey,  and  we  both  sting  people  when  we 
are  angry,  yet  men  always  hate  me  and  try  to  kill  me,  though  I  am  much 
more  familiar  with  them  than  you  are,  and  pay  them  visits  in  their  houses, 
and  at  their  tea-table,  and  at  all  their  meals  j  while  you  are  very  shy,  and 
hardly  ever  come  near  them :  yet  they  build  you  curious  houses,  thatched 
with  straw,  and  take  care  of  and  feed  you  in  the  winter  very  often : — I 
wonder  what  is  the  reason?" 

The  bee  said,  "Because  you  never  do  them  any  good,  but,  on  the 
contrary,  are  very  troublesome  and  mischievous ;  therefore,  they  do  not  like 
to  see  you,  but  they  know  that  I  am  busy  all  day  long  in  making  them 
honey.     You  had  better  pay  them  fewer  visits,  and  try  to  be  useful." 

THE  GOOSE  AND  HORSE.— A  Fable. 

A  goose,  who  was  plucking  grass  upon  a  common,  thought  herself 
affronted  by   a  horse  who  fed  near  her,  and   m  hissing   accents   thus 


THE    FL\ING-FISH.  13 

addressed  him  :  "I  am  certainly  a  more  noble  and  perfect  animal  than 
you,  for  the  whole  range  and  extent  of  your  faculties  is  confined  to  one 
element.  I  can  walk  upon  the  ground  as  well  as  you :  I  have  besides 
wings,  with  which  I  can  raise  myself  in  the  air ;  and  when  I  please,  I 
can  sport  in  ponds  and  lakes,  and  refresh  myself  in  the  cool  waters :  I 
enjoy  the  different  powers  of  a  bird,  a  fish,  and  a  quadruped." 

The  horse,  snorting  somewhat  disdainfully,  replied,  "  It  is  true  you 
inhabit  three  elements,  but  you  make  no  very  distinguished  figure  in  any 
one  of  them.  You  fly,  indeed ;  but  your  flight  is  so  heavy  and  clumsy, 
that  you  have  no  right  to  put  yourself  on  a  level  with  the  lark  or  the 
swallow.  You  can  swim  on  the  surface  of  the  waters,  but  you  cannot 
live  in  them  as  fishes  do;  you  cannot  find  your  food  in  that  element,  nor 
glide  smoothly  along  the  bottom  of  the  waves.  And  when  you  walk,  or 
rather  waddle,  upon  the  ground,  with  your  broad  feet,  and  your  long  neck 
stretched  out,  hissing  at  every  one  who  passes  by,  you  bring  upon  yourself 
the  derision  of  all  beholders.  I  confess  that  I  am  only  formed  to  move 
upon  the  ground;  but  how  graceful  is  my  make!  how  well  turned  my 
limbs !  how  highly  finished  my  whole  body !  how  great  my  strength ! 
how  astonishing  my  speed !  I  had  far  rather  be  confined  to  one  element, 
and  be  admired  in  that,  than  be  a  goose  in  all." 

THE  FLYING-FISH. 

The  flying-fish,  says  the  fable,  had  originally  no  wings,  but  being 
of  an  ambitious  and  discontented  temper,  she  repined  at  being  always 
confined  to  the  waters,  and  wished  to  soar  in  the  air.  "  If  I  could  fly  like 
the  birds,"  said  she,  "  I  should  not  only  see  more  of  the  beauties  of  nature, 
but  I  should  be  able  to  escape  from  those  fish  which  are  continually 
pursuing  me,  and  which  render  my  life  miserable."  She  therefore  petitioned 
Jupiter  for  a  pair  of  wings ;  and  immediately  she  perceived  her  fins  to 
expand.  They  suddenly  grew  to  the  length  of  her  whole  body,  and 
became  at  the  same  time  so  strong  as  to  do  the  office  of  a  pinion.  She 
was  at  first  much  pleased  with  her  new  powers,  and  looked  with  an  air  of 
disdain  on  all  her  former  companions;  but  she  soon  perceived  herself 
exposed  to  new  dangers.  When  flying  in  the  air,  she  was  incessantly 
pursued  by  the  tropic  bird  and  the  albatross ;  and  when  for  safety  she 
dropped  into  the  water,  she  was  so  fatigued  with  her  flight,  that  she  was 
less  able  than  ever  to  escape  from  her  old  enemies  the  fish.     Finding 


14  FIRST    EVENING. 

herself  more  unhappy  than  before,  she  now  begged  of  Jupiter  to  recall  his 
present;  but  Jupiter  said  to  her,  "When  I  gave  you  your  wings,  I  well  knew 
I  they  would  prove  a  curse ;  but  your  proud  and  restless  disposition  deserved 
this  disappointment.  Now,  therefore,  what  you  begged  as  a  favour,  keep 
as  a  punishment !" 

THE  LITTLE  DOG.— A  Fable. 

"  What  shall  I  do,"  said  a  very  little  dog  one  day  to  his  mother,  "  to 
show  my  gratitude  to  our  good  master,  and  make  myself  of  some  value 
to  him  ?  I  cannot  draw  or  carry  burdens,  like  the  horse,  nor  give  him 
milk,  like  the  cow ;  nor  lend  him  my  covering  for  his  clothing,  like  the 
sheep ;  nor  produce  him  eggs,  like  the  poultry ;  nor  catch  mice  and  rats 
so  well  as  the  cat.  I  cannot  divert  him  with  singing,  like  the  canaries 
and  linnets;  nor  can  I  defend  him  against  robbers,  like  our  relation 
Towzer.  I  should  not  be  of  use  to  him  even  if  I  were  dead,  as  the  hogs 
are.  I  am  a  poor  insignificant  creature,  not  worth  the  cost  of  keeping ; 
and  I  do  n't  see  that  I  can  do  a  single  thing  to  entitle  me  to  his  regard." 
So  saying,  the  poor  little  dog  hung  down  his  head  in  silent  despondency. 

"  My  dear  child,"  replied  his  mother,  "  though  your  abilities  are  but 
small,  yet  a  hearty  good  will  is  sufficient  to  supply  all  defects.  Do  but 
love  him  dearly,  and  prove  your  love  by  all  the  means  in  your  power,  and 
you  will  not  fail  to  please  him." 

The  little  dog  was  comforted  with  this  assurance ;  and  on  his  master's 
approach,  ran  to  him,  licked  his  feet,  gambolled  before  him,  and  every  now 
and  then  stopped,  wagging  his  tail,  and  looking  up  to  his  master  with 
expressions  of  the  most  humble  and  affectionate  attachment.  The  master 
observed  him.  "Ah,  little  Fido,"  said  he,  "  you  are  an  honest,  good-na- 
tured little  fellow  !" — and  stooped  down  to  pat  his  head.  Poor  Fido  was 
ready  to  go  out  of  his  wits  for  joy. 

Fido  was  now  his  master's  constant  companion  in  his  walks,  playing 
and  skipping  round  him,  and  amusing  him  by  a  thousand  sportive  tricks. 
He  took  care,  however,  not  to  be  troublesome  by  leaping  on  him  with 
dirty  paws,  nor  would  he  follow  him  into  the  parlour,  unless  invited.  He 
also  attempted  to  make  himself  useful  by  a  number  of  little  services. 
He  would  drive  away  the  sparrows  as  they  were  stealing  the  chickens' 
food,  and  would  run  and  bark  with  the  utmost  fury  at  any  strange  pigs 
or  other  animals  that  offered  to  come  into  the  yard.     He  kept  the  poultry, 


TRAVELLERS5    WONDERS.  15 

geese,  and  pigs,  from  straying  beyond  their  bounds,  and  particularly  from 
doing  mischief  in  the  garden.  He  was  always  ready  to  alarm  Towzer 
if  there  was  any  suspicious  noise  about  the  house,  day  or  night.  If  his 
master  pulled  off  his  coat  in  the  field  to  help  his  workmen,  as  he  would 
sometimes  do,  Fido  always  sat  by  it,  and  would  not  suffer  either  man  or 
beast  to  touch  it.  By  this  means  he  came  to  be  considered  as  a  very 
trusty  protector  of  his  master's  property. 

His  master  was  once  confined  to  his  bed  with  a  dangerous  illness. 
Fido  planted  himself  at  the  chamber-door,  and  could  not  be  persuaded  to 
leave  it,  even  to  take  food ;  and  as  soon  as  his  master  was  so  far  recov- 
ered as  to  sit  up,  Fido  being  admitted  into  the  room,  ran  up  to  him  with 
such  marks  of  excessive  joy  and  affection,  as  would  have  melted  any 
heart  to  behold.  This  circumstance  wonderfully  endeared  him  to  his 
master ;  and,  some  time  after,  he  had  an  opportunity  of  doing  him  a  very 
important  service.  One  hot  day,  after  dinner,  his  master  was  sleeping  in 
a  summer-house  with  Fido  by  his  side.  The  building  was  old  and  crazy ; 
and  the  dog,  who  was  faithfully  watching  his  master,  perceived  the  walls 
shake,  and  pieces  of  mortar  fall  from  the  ceiling.  He  comprehended  the 
danger,  and  began  barking  to  awake  his  master;  and  this  not  sufficing^ 
he  jumped  up  and  gently  bit  his  finger.  The  master,  upon  this,  started 
up,  and  had  just  time  to  get  out  of  the  door  before  the  whole  building 
fell  down.  Fido,  who  was  behind,  got  hurt  by  some  rubbish  which 
fell  upon  him ;  on  which  his  master  had  him  taken  care  of  with  the 
utmost  tenderness,  and  ever  after  acknowledged  his  obligation  to  this 
animal  as  the  preserver  of  his  life.  Thus  his  love  and  fidelity  had  their 
full  reward. 

Moral. — The  poorest  man  may  repay  his  obligations  to  the  richest  and 
greatest  by  faithful  and  affectionate  service — the  meanest  creature  may 
obtain  the  favour  and  regard  of  the  Creator  himself,  by  humble  gratitude 
and  steadfast  obedience. 


TRAVELLERS'  WONDERS. 

One  winter's  evening,  as  Captain  Compass  was  sitting  by  the  fireside 
with  his  children  all  around  him,  little  Jack  said  to  him,  "Papa,  pray  tell 
us  some  stories  about  what  you  have  seen  in  your  voyages.  I  have  been 
vastly  entertained,  while  you  were  abroad,  with  Gulliver's  Travels,  and 
the  Adventures  of  Sinbad  the  Sailor;  and  I  think,  as  you  have  gone  round 


16  FIRST    EVENING. 

and  round  the  world,  you  must  have  met  with  things  as  wonderful  as  they 
did." — "No,  my  dear,"  said  the  captain,  "I  never  met  with  Lilliputians 
or  Brobdignagians,  I  assure  you,  nor  ever  saw  the  black  loadstone  mount- 
ain, or  the  valley  of  diamonds ;  but,  to  be  sure,  I  have  seen  a  great  variety 
of  people,  and  their  different  manners  and  ways  of  living ;  and  if  it  will 
be  any  entertainment  to  you,  I  will  tell  you  some  curious  particulars  of 
what  I  observed." — "  Pray  do,  papa,"  cried  Jack  and  all  his  brothers  and 
sisters :  so  they  drew  close  round  him,  and  he  began  as  follows  : — 

"Well,  then — I  was  once,  about  this  time  of  the  year,  in  a  country 
where  it  was  very  cold,  and  the  poor  inhabitants  had  much  ado  to  keep 
themselves  from  starving.  They  were  clad  partly  in  the  skins  of  beasts, 
made  smooth  and  soft  by  a  particular  art,  but  chiefly  in  garments  made 
from  the  outward  covering  of  a  middle-sized  quadruped,  which  they  were 
so  cruel  as  to  strip  off  his  back  while  he  was  alive.  They  dwelt  in  habita- 
tions, part  of  which  was  sunk  underground.  The  materials  were  either 
stones,  or  earth  hardened  by  fire ;  and  so  violent  in  that  country  were  the 
storms  of  wind  and  rain,  that  many  of  them  covered  their  roofs  all  over 
with  stones.  The  walls  of  their  houses  had  holes  to  let  in  the  light :  but 
to  prevent  the  cold  air  and  wet  from  coming  in,  they  were  covered  by  a 
sort  of  transparent  stone,  made  artificially  of  melted  sand  or  flints.  As 
wood  was  rather  scarce,  I  know  not  what  they  would  have  done  for  firing, 
had  they  not  discovered  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth  a  very  extraordinary 
kind  of  stone,  which  when  put  among  burning  wood,  caught  fire  and 
flamed  like  a  torch." 

"  Dear  me,"  said  Jack,  "  what  a  wonderful  stone !  I  suppose  it  was 
somewhat  like  what  we  call  fire-stones,  that  shine  so  when  we  rub  them 
together." — "I  don't  think  they  would  burn,"  replied  the  captain;  "besides, 
these  are  of  a  darker  colour. 

"  Well — but  their  diet  too  was  remarkable.  Some  of  them  ate  fish  that 
had  been  hung  up  in  the  smoke  till  they  were  quite  dry  and  hard  ;  and 
along  with  it  they  ate  either  the  roots  of  plants,  or  a  sort  of  coarse  black 
cake  made  of  powdered  seeds.  These  were  the  poorer  class;. the  richer 
had  a  whiter  kind  of  cake,  which  they  were  fond  of  daubing  over  with  a 
greasy  matter  that  was  the  product  of  a  large  animal  among  them.  This 
grease  they  used,  too,  in  almost  all  their  dishes,  and,  when  fresh,  it  really 
was  not  unpalatable.  They  likewise  devoured  the  flesh  of  many  birds 
and  beasts  when  they  could  get  it ;  and  ate  the  leaves  and  other  parts  of 
a  variety  of  vegetables  growing  in  the  country,  some  absolutely  raw, 


TRAVELLERS3    WONDERS.  17 

others  variously  prepared  by  the  aid  of  fire.  Another  great  article  of 
food  was  the  curd  of  milk,  pressed  into  a  hard  mass  and  salted.  This  had 
so  rank  a  smell,  that  persons  of  weak  stomachs  often  could  not  bear  to 
come  near  it.  For  drink,  they  made  great  use  of  the  water  in  which 
certain  dry  leaves  had  been  steeped.  These  leaves,  I  was  told,  came 
from  a  great  distance.  They  had  likewise  a  method  of  preparing  a  liquor 
of  the  seeds  of  a  grass-like  plant  steeped  in  water  with  the  addition  of  a 
bitter  herb,  and  then  set  to  work  or  ferment.  I  was  prevailed  upon  to 
taste  it,  and  thought  it  at  first  nauseous  enough,  but  in  time  I  liked  it 
pretty  well.  When  a  large  quantity  of  the  ingredients  is  used,  it  becomes 
perfectly  intoxicating.  But  what  astonished  me  most,  was  their  use  of  a 
liquor  so  excessively  hot  and  pungent  that  it  seems  like  liquid  fire.  I  once 
got  a  mouthful  of  it  by  mistake,  taking  it  for  water,  which  it  resembles  in 
appearance,  but  I  thought  it  would  instantly  have  taken  away  my  breath. 
Indeed,  people  are  not  unfrequently  killed  by  it ;  and  yet  many  of  them 
will  swallow  it  greedily  whenever  they  can  get  it.  This,  too,  is  said  to 
be  prepared  from  the  seeds  abovementioned,  which  are  innocent  and  even 
salutary  in  their  natural  state,  though  made  to  yield  such  a  pernicious 
juice.  The  strangest  custom  that  I  believe  prevails  in  any  nation  I  found 
here,  which  was,  that  some  take  a  mighty  pleasure  in  filling  their  mouths 
full  of  stinking  smoke  •  and  others,  in  thrusting  a  nasty  powder  up  their 
nostrils." 

"  I  should  think  it  would  choke  them,"  said  Jack.  "  It  almost  did  me," 
answered  his  father,  "  only  to  stand  by  while  they  did  it — but  use,  it  is 
truly  said,  is  second  nature. 

"  I  was  glad  enough  to  leave  this  cold  climate  ;  and  about  half  a  year 
after,  I  fell  in  with  a  people  enjoying  a  delicious  temperature  of  air,  and 
a  country  full  of  beauty  and  verdure.  The  trees  and  shrubs  were  fur- 
nished with  a  great  variety  of  fruits,  which,  with  other  vegetable  products, 
constituted  a  large  part  of  the  food  of  the  inhabitants.  I  particularly 
relished  certain  berries  growing  in  bunches,  some  white  and  some  red,  of 
a  very  pleasant  sourish  taste,  and  so  transparent  that  one  might  see  the 
seeds  at  their  very  centre.  Here  were  whole  fields  full  of  extremely 
odoriferous  flowers,  which  they  told  me  were  succeeded  by  pods  bearing 
seeds,  that  afforded  good  nourishment  to  man  and  beast.  A  great  variety 
of  birds  enlivened  the  groves  and  woods;  among  which  I  was  entertained 
with  one,  that  without  any  teaching  spoke  almost  as  articulately  as  a 
parrot,  though  indeed  it  was  only  a  repetition  of  a  single  word.     The 


18  FIRST    EVENING. 

people  were  tolerably  gentle  and  civilized,  and  possessed  many  of  tht 
arts  of  life.  Their  dress  was  very  various.  Many  were  clad  only  in  a 
thin  cloth  made  of  the  long  fibres  of  the  stalk  of  a  plant  cultivated  for 
the  purpose,  which  they  prepared  by  soaking  m  water,  and  then  beating 
with  large  mallets.  Others  wore  cloth  woven  from  a  sort  of  vegetable 
wool,  growing  in  pods  upon  bushes.  But  the  most  singular  material  was 
a  fine  glossy  stuff,  used  chiefly  by  the  richer  classes,  which,  as  I  was 
credibly  informed,  is  manufactured  out  of  the  webs  of  caterpillars — a 
most  wonderful  circumstance,  if  we  consider  the  immense  number  of 
caterpillars  necessary  to  the  production  of  so  large  a  quantity  of  stuff  as  I 
saw  used.  This  people  are  very  fantastic  in  their  dress,  especially  the 
women,  whose  apparel  consists  of  a  great  number  of  articles  impossible 
to  be  described,  and  strangely  disguising  the  natural  form  of  the  body. 
In  some  instances  they  seem  very  cleanly ;  but  in  others,  the  Hottentots 
can  scarce  go  beyond  them ;  particularly  in  the  management  of  their  hair, 
which  is  all  matted  and  stiffened  with  the  fat  of  swine  and  other  animals, 
mixed  up  with  powders  of  various  colours  and  ingredients.  Like  most 
Indian  nations,  they  use  feathers  in  their  head-dress.  One  thing  surprised 
me  much,  which  was,  that  they  bring  up  in  their  houses  an  animal  of  the 
tiger-kind,  with  formidable  teeth  and  claws,  which,  notwithstanding  its 
natural  ferocity,  is  played  with  and  caressed  by  the  most  timid  and 
delicate  of  their  women." 

"  I  am  sure  I  would  not  play  with  it,"  said  Jack.  "  Why,  you  might 
chance  to  get  an  ugly  scratch  if  you  did,"  said  the  captain. 

"  The  language  of  this  nation  seems  very  harsh  and  unintelligible  to  a 
foreigner,  yet  they  converse  among  one  another  with  great  ease  and 
quickness.  One  of  the  oddest  customs  is  that  which  men  use  on  saluting 
each  other.  Let  the  weather  be  what  it  will,  they  uncover  their  heads, 
and  remain  uncovered  for  some  time,  if  they  mean  to  be  extraordinarily 
respectful." 

"  Why  that's  like  pulling  off  our  hats,"  said  Jack.-—"  Ah,  ah !  papa," 
cried  Betsy,  "  I  have  found  you  out.  You  have  been  telling  us  of  our 
own  country,  and  what  is  done  at  home,  all  this  while  !" — "  But,"  said 
Jack,  "  we  do  n't  burn  stones  or  eat  grease  and  powdered  seeds,  or  wear 
skins  and  caterpillars'  webs,  or  play  with  tigers."  —  "No?"  said  the 
Captain — "  pray,  what  are  coals  but  stones  ?  and  is  not  butter,  grease ; 
and  corn,  seeds :  and  leather,  skins ;  and  silk,  the  web  of  a  kind  of 
caterpillar  ?    And  may  we  not  as  well  call  a  cat  an  animal  of  the  tiger 


THE    DISCONTENTED    SQUIRREL.  19 

kind,  as  a  tiger  an  animal  of  the  cat-kind  ?  So,  if  you  recollect  what  I 
have  been  describing,  you  wjll  find,  with  Betsy's  help,  that  all  the  other 
wonderful  things  I  have  told  you  of  are  matters  familiar  among  ourselves. 
But  I  meant  to  show  you,  that  a  foreigner  might  easily  represent  every- 
tning  as  equally  strange  and  wonderful  among  us  as  we  could  do  with 
respect  to  his  country ;  and  also  to  make  you  sensible  that  we  daily  call 
a  great  many  things  by  their  names,  without  ever  inquiring  into  their 
nature  and  properties  ;  so  that,  in  reality,  it  is  only  their  names,  and  not 
the  things  themselves,  with  which  we  are  acquainted." 

THE  DISCONTENTED  SQUIRREL. 

In  a  pleasant  wood,  on  the  western  side  of  a  ridge  of  mountains,  there 
lived  a  squirrel,  who  had  passed  two  or  three  years  of  his  life  very 
happily.  At  length,  he  began  to  grow  discontented,  and  one  day  fell 
into  the  following  soliloquy  : — 

"  What,  must  I  spend  all  my  time  in  this  spot,  running  up  and  down 
the  same  trees,  gathering  nuts  and  acorns,  and  dozing  away  months 
together  in  a  hole  !  I  see  a  great  many  of  the  birds  who  inhabit  this 
wood  ramble  about  to  a  distance  wherever  their  fancy  leads  them ;  and, 
at  the  approach  of  winter,  set  out  for  some  remote  country,  where  they 
enjoy  summer  weather  all  the  year  round.  My  neighbour  cuckoo  tells 
me  he  is  just  going;  and  even  little  nightingale  will  soon  follow.  To 
be  sure,  I  have  not  wings  like  them,  but  I  have  legs  nimble  enough ;  and 
if  one  does  not  use  them,  one  might  as  well  be  a  mole  or  a  dormouse.  I 
dare  say  I  could  easily  reach  to  that  blue  ridge  which  I  see  from  the  tops 
of  the  trees,  which  no  doubt  must  be  a  fine  place ;  for  the  sun  comes 
directly  from  it  every  morning,  and  it  often  appears  all  covered  with  red 
and  yellow,  and  the  finest  colours  imaginable.  There  can  be  no  harm,  at 
least,  in  trying;  for  I  can  soon  get  back  again  if  I  don't  like  it.  I  am 
resolved  to  go,  and  I  will  set  out  to-morrow  morning." 

When  squirrel  had  taken  this  resolution,  he  could  not  sleep  all  night 
for  thinking  of  it ;  and  at  peep  of  day,  prudently  taking  with  him  as  much 
provision  as  he  could  conveniently  carry,  he  began  his  journey  in  high 
spirits.  He  presently  got  to  the  outside  of  the  wood,  and  entered  upon 
the  open  moors  that  reached  to  the  foot  of  the  hills.  These  he  crossed 
before  the  sun  was  gotten  high ;  and  then,  having  eaten  his  breakfast 
with  an  excellent  appetite,  he  began  to  ascend.    It  was  heavy  toilsome 


20  FIRST    EVENING. 

work  scrambling  up  the  steep  sides  of  the  mountains ;  but  squirrel  was 
used  to  climbing;  so  for  awhile  he  proceeded  expeditiously.  Often, 
however,  was  he  obliged  to  stop  and  take  breath ;  so  that  it  was  a  good 
deal  past  noon  before  he  had  arrived  at  the  summit  of  the  first  cliff. 
Here  he  sat  down  to  eat  his  dinner;  and  looking  back,  was  wonderfully- 
pleased  with  the  fine  prospect.  The  wood  in  which  he  lived  lay  far 
beneath  his  feet ;  and  he  viewed  with  scorn  the  humble  habitation  in 
which  he  had  been  born  and  bred. 

When  he  looked  forward,  however,  he  was  somewhat  discouraged  to 
observe  that  another  eminence  rose  above  him,  full  as  distant  as  that  to 
which  he  had  already  reached ;  and  he  now  began  to  feel  stiff  and  fatigued. 
However,  after  a  little  rest,  he  set  out  again,  though  not  so  briskly  as 
before.  The  ground  was  rugged,  brown,  and  bare  ;  and  to  his  great 
surprise,  instead  of  finding  it  warmer  as  he  got  nearer  the  sun,  he  felt  it 
grow  colder  and  colder.  He  had  not  travelled  two  hours  before  his 
strength  and  spirits  were  almost  spent ;  and  he  seriously  thought  of  giving 
up  the  point,  and  returning  before  night  should  come  on.  While  he  was 
thus  deliberating  with  himself,  clouds  began  to  gather  round  the  mountain, 
and  to  take  away  all  view  of  distant  objects.  Presently,  a  storm  of 
mingled  snow  and  hail  came  down,  driven  by  a  violent  wind,  which 
pelted  poor  squirrel  most  pitifully,  and  made  him  quite  unable  to  move 
forward  or  backward.  Besides,  he  had  completely  lost  his  road,  and 
did  not  know  which  way  to  turn  toward  that  despised  home  which  it  was 
now  his  only  desire  again  to  reach.  The  storm  lasted  till  the  approach 
of  night ;  and  it  was  as  much  as  he  could  do,  benumbed  and  weary  as  he 
was,  to  crawl  to  the  hollow  of  a  rock  at  some  distance,  which  was  the 
best  lodging  he  could  find  for  the  night.  His  provisions  were  spent ;  so 
that,  hungry  and  shivering,  he  crept  into  the  farthest  corner  of  the  cavern, 
and  rolling  himself  up,  with  his  bushy  tail  over  his  back,  he  got  a  little 
sleep,  though  disturbed  by  the  cold,  and  the  shrill  whistling  of  the  wind 
among  the  stones. 

The  morning  broke  over  the  distant  tops  of  the  mountains,  when 
squirrel,  half  frozen  and  famished,  came  out  of  his  lodging,  and  advanced, 
as  well  as  he  could,  toward  the  brow  of  the  hill,  that  he  might  discover 
which  way  to  take.  As  he  was  slowly  creeping  along,  a  hungry  kite, 
soaring  in  the  air  above,  descried  him,  and  making  a  stoop  carried  him  off 
in  her  talons.  Poor  squirrel,  losing  his  senses  with  the  fright,  was  borne 
away  with  vast  rapidity,  and  seemed  inevitably  doomed  to  become  food 


THE    DISCONTENTED    SQUIRREL.  21 

for  the  kite's  young  ones :  when  an  eagle,  who  had  seen  the  kite  seize  her 
prey,  pursued  her  in  order  to  take  it  from  her ;  and  overtaking  her,  gave 
her  such  a  buffet,  as  caused  her  to  drop  the  squirrel  in  order  to  defend 
herself.  The  poor  animal  kept  falling  through  the  air  a  long  time,  till  at 
last  he  alighted  in  the  midst  of  a  thick  tree,  the  leaves  and  tender  boughs 
of  which  so  broke  his  fall,  that,  though  stunned  and  breathless,  he 
escaped  without  material  injury,  and  after  lying  a  while,  came  to  himself 
again.  But  what  was  his  pleasure  and  surprise,  to  find  himself  in  the 
very  tree  which  contained  his  nest.  "  Ah !"  said  he,  "  my  dear  native 
place  and  peaceful  home !  if  ever  I  am  again  tempted  to  leave  you,  may  I 
undergo  a  second  time  all  the  miseries  and  dangers  from  which  I  have 
now  so  wonderfully  escaped." 


The  Mask  of  Nature,  p.  25. 

EVENING  II. 


ON  THE  MARTEN. 

"Look  up,  my  dear,"  said  his  papa  to  Little  William,  "at  those  birds'- 
nests  above  the  chamber-windows,  beneath  the  eaves  of  the  house.  Some, 
you  see,  are  just  begun — nothing  but  a  little  clay  stuck  against  the  wall. 
Others  are  half  finished ;  and  others  are  quite  built — close  and  tight — 
leaving  nothing  but  a  small  hole  for  the  birds  to  come  in  and  go  out  at." 

"  What  are  they  ?"  said  William. 

"  They  are  martens'  nests,"  replied  his  father ;  "  and  there  you  see  the 
owners.     How  busily  they  fly  backward  and  forward,  bringing  clay  and 

22 


ON   THE    MARTEN.  23 

dirt  in  their  bills,  and  laying  it  upon  their  work,  forming  it  into  shape 
with  their  bills  and  feet !  The  nests  are  built  very  strong  and  thick,  like 
a  mud  wall,  and  are  lined  with  feathers  to  make  a  soft  bed  for  the  young. 
Martens  are  a  kind  of  swallows.  They  feed  on  flies,  gnats,  and  other 
insects;  and  always  build  in  towns  and  villages  about  the  houses. 
People  do  not  molest  them,  for  they  do  good  rather  than  harm,  and  it  is 
very  amusing  to  view  their  manners  and  actions.  See  how  swiftly  they 
skim  through  the  air  in  pursuit  of  their  prey  !  In  the  morning  they  are 
up  by  daybreak,  and  twitter  about  your  window  while  you  are  asleep  in 
bed  ;  and  all  day  long  they  are  upon  the  wing,  getting  food  for  themselves 
and  their  young.  As  soon  as  they  have  caught  a  few  flies,  they  hasten 
to  their  nests,  pop  into  the  hole,  and  feed  their  little  ones.  I'll  tell  you  a 
story  about  the  great  care  they  take  of  their  young.  A  pair  of  martens 
once  built  their  nest  in  a  porch ;  and  when  they  had  young  ones,  it 
happened  that  one  of  them  climbing  up  to  the  hole  before  he  was  fledged, 
fell  out,  and,  lighting  upon  the  stones,  was  killed.  The  old  birds, 
perceiving  this  accident,  went  and  got  short  bits  of  strong  straw,  and 
stuck  them  with  mud,  like  palisades,  all  round  the  hole  of  the  nest,  in 
order  to  keep  the  other  little  ones  from  tumbling  after  their  poor  brother." 

"  How  cunning  that  was  !"  cried  William. 

"Yes,"  said  his  father;  "and  I  can  tell  you  another  story  of  their 
sagacity,  and  also  of  their  disposition  to  help  one  another.  A  saucy 
cock-sparrow  (you  know  what  impudent  rogues  they  are !)  had  got  into 
a  marten's  nest  while  the  owner  was  abroad ;  and  when  he  returned,  the 
sparrow  put  his  head  out  of  the  hole  and  pecked  at  the  marten  with  open 
bill,  as  he  attempted  to  enter  his  own  house.  The  poor  marten  was  sadly 
provoked  at  this  injustice,  but  was  unable  by  his  own  strength  to  right 
himself.  So  he  flew  away  and  gathered  a  number  of  his  companions, 
who  all  came  with  bits  of  clay  in  their  bills,  with  which  they  plastered 
up  the  hole  of  the  nest,  and  kept  the  sparrow  in  prison,  who  died  miser- 
ably for  want  of  food  and  air." 

"  He  was  rightly  served,"  said  William. 

"  So  he  was,"  rejoined  his  papa.  "  Well ;  I  have  more  to  say  about  the 
sagacity  of  these  birds.  In  autumn,  when  it  begins  to  be  cold  weather, 
the  other  swallows  assemble  upon  the  roofs  of  high  buildings,  and  prepare 
for  their  departure  to  a  warmer  country ;  for  as  all  the  insects  here  die  in 
the  winter,  they  would  have  nothing  to  live  on  if  they  were  to  stay. 
They  take  several  short  flights  in  flocks  round  and  round,  in  order  to  try 


24  SECOND  EVENING. 

their  strength,  and  then  on  some  fine  calm  day,  they  set  out  together  for  a 
long  journey  southward,  over  sea  and  land,  to  a  very  distant  country." 

"  But  how  do  they  find  their  way  ?"  said  William. 

"We  say,"  answered  his  father,  "  that  they  are  taught  by  instinct ;  that 
is,  God  has  implanted  in  their  minds  a  desire  of  travelling  at  the  season 
which  he  knows  to  be  proper,  and  has  also  given  them  an  impulse  to  take 
the  right  road.  They  steer  their  course  through  the  wide  air  directly  to 
the  proper  spot.  Sometimes,  however,  storms  and  contrary  winds  meet 
them  and  drive  the  poor  birds  about  till  they  are  quite  spent  and  fall  into 
the  sea,  unless  they  happen  to  meet  with  a  ship,  on  which  they  can  light 
and  rest  themselves.  The  swallows  from  this  country  are  supposed  to  go 
as  far  as  the  middle  of  Africa  to  spend  the  winter,  where  the  weather  is 
always  warm,  and  insects  are  to  be  met  with  all  the  year.  In  spring  they 
take  another  long  journey  back  again  to  these  northern  countries.  Some- 
times, when  we  have  fine  weather  very  early,  a  few  of  them  come  too 
soon ;  for  when  it  changes  to  frost  and  snow  again,  the  poor  creatures 
are  starved  for  want  of  food,  or  perish  from  the  cold.  Hence  arises  the 
proverb, 

1  One  swallow  does  not  make  a  summer, 

But  when  a  great  many  of  them  are  come,  we  may  be  sure  that  winter  is 
over,  so  that  we  are  always  very  glad  to  see  them  again.  The  martens 
find  their  way  back  over  a  great  length  of  sea  and  land  to  the  very  same 
villages  and  houses  where  they  were  bred.  This  has  been  discovered  by 
catching  some  of  them,  and  marking  them.  They  repair  their  old  nests, 
or  build  new  ones,  and  then  set  about  laying  eggs  and  hatching  their 
young.  Pretty  things  !  I  hope  you  will  never  knock  down  their  nests,  or 
take  their  eggs  or  young  ones  !  for,  as  they  come  such  a  long  way  to  visit 
us,  and  lodge  in  our  houses  without  fear,  we  ought  to  use  them  kindly." 

MOUSE.  LAPDOG,  AND  MONKEY.— A  Fable. 

A  poor  little  mouse,  being  half  starved,  ventured  one  day  to  steal  from 
behind  the  wainscot  while  the  family  were  at  dinner,  and,  trembling  all 
the  while,  picked  up  a  few  crumbs  which  were  scattered  on  the  ground. 
She  was  soon  observed,  however ;  everybody  was  immediately  alarmed  ; 
some  called  for  the  cat ;  others  took  up  whatever  was  at  hand,  and 
endeavoured  to  crush  her  to  pieces  ;  and  the  poor  terrified  animal  was 


J 


THE    MASK    OF    NATURE.  2b 

i 

driven  round  the  room  in  an  agony  of  terror.  At  length,  however,  she 
was  fortunate  enough  to  gain  her  hole,  where  she  sat  panting  with  fatigue. 
When  the  family  were  again  seated,  a  lapdog  and  a  monkey  came  iuto 
the  room.  The  former  jumped  into  the  lap  of  his  mistress,  fawned  upon 
every  one  of  the  children,  and  made  his  court  so  effectually,  that  he  was 
rewarded  with  some  of  the  best  morsels  of  the  entertainment.  The 
monkey,  on  the  other  hand,  forced  himself  into  notice  by  his  grimaces. 
He  played  a  thousand  little  mischievous  tricks,  and  was  regaled,  at  the 
appearance  of  the  dessert,  with  plenty  of  nuts  and  apples.  The  unfor- 
tunate little  mouse,  who  saw  from  her  hiding-place  everything  that  passed, 
sighed  in  anguish  of  heart,  and  said  to  herself,  "  Alas !  how  ignorant  was 
I,  to  imagine  that  poverty  and  distress  were  sufficient  recommendations 
to  the  charity  of  the  opulent.  I  now  find,  that  whoever  is  not  master  ol 
fawning  and  buffoonery,  is  but  ill  qualified  for  a  dependant,  and  will  not 
be  suffered  even  to  pick  up  the  crumbs  that  fall  from  the  table." 

ANIMALS  AND  THEIR  COUNTRIES. 

O'er  Afric's  sand  the  tawny  lion  stalks : 

On  Phasis'  banks  the  graceful  pheasant  walks  : 

The  lonely  eagle  builds  on  Kilda's  shore : 

Germania's  forests  feed  the  tusky  boar : 

From  Alp  to  Alp  the  sprightly  ibex  bounds  : 

With  peaceful  lowings  Britain's  isle  resounds : 

The  Lapland  peasant  o'er  the  frozen  meer 

Is  drawn  in  sledges  by  the  swift  raindeer : 

The  river-horse  and  scaly  crocodile 

Infest  the  reedy  banks  of  fruitful  Nile : 

Dire  dipsas  hiss  o'er  Mauritania's  plain  : 

And  seals  and  spouting  whales  sport  in  the  northern  Main. 

THE  MASK  OF  NATURE. 

Who  is  this  beautiful  Virgin  that  approaches  clothed  in  a  robe  of  light 
green  ?  She  has  a  garland  of  flowers  on  her  head,  and  flowers  spring  up 
wherever  she  sets  her  foot.  The  snow,  which  covered  the  fields,  and  the 
ice,  which  was  in  the  rivers,  melt  away  when  she  breathes  upon  them.  The 
young  lambs  frisk  about  her,  and  the  birds  warble  in  their  little  throats  to 

2 


^c 


26  SECOND    EVENING. 

welcome  her  coming ;  and  when  they  see  her,  they  begin  to  choose  their 
mates,  and  to  build  their  nests.  Youths  and  maidens  have  you  seen  this 
beautiful  Virgin  ?     If  you  have,  tell  me  who  she  is,  and  what  is  her  name. 

Who  is  this  that  cometh  from  the  south,  thinly  clad  in  a  light  transpa- 
rent garment ;  her  breath  is  hot  and  sultry ;  she  seeks  the  refreshment  of 
the  cool  shade ;  she  seeks  the  clear  streams,  and  crystal  brooks,  to  bathe 
her  languid  limbs  ?  The  brooks  and  rivulets  fly  from  her,  and  are  dried 
up  at  her  approach.  She  cools  her  parched  lips  with  berries,  and  the 
grateful  acid  of  all  fruits, — the  seedy  melon,  the  sharp  apple,  and  the  red 
pulp  of  the  juicy  cherry,  which  are  poured  out  plentifully  around  her. 
The  tanned  haymakers  welcome  her  coming;  and  the  sheepshearer, 
who  clips  the  fleeces  off  his  flock  with  his  sounding  shears.  When  she 
cometh  let  me  lie  under  the  thick  shade  of  a  spreading  beach-tree — let 
me  walk  with  her  in  the  early  morning,  when  the  dew  is  yet  upon  the 
grass — let  me  wander  with  her  in  the  soft  twilight,  when  the  shepherd 
shuts  his  fold,  and  the  star  of  evening  appears.  Who  is  she  that  cometh 
from  the  south  ?  Youths  and  maidens,  tell  me,  if  you  know,  who  she  is, 
and  what  is  her  name. 

Who  is  he  that  cometh  with  sober  pace,  stealing  upon  us  unawares  ? 
His  garments  are  red  with  the  blood  of  the  grape,  and  his  temples  are 
bound  with  a  sheaf  of  ripe  wheat.  His  hair  is  thin  and  begins  to  fall, 
and  the  auburn  is  mixed  with  mournful  gray.  He  shakes  the  brown  nuts 
from  the  tree.  He  winds  the  horn,  and  calls  the  hunters  to  their  sport. 
The  gun  sounds: — the  trembling  partridge  and  the  beautiful  pheasant 
flutter,  bleeding  in  the  air,  and  fall  dead  at  the  sportsman's  feet.  Who  is 
he  that  is  crowned  with  a  wheat-sheaf?  Youths  and  maidens,  tell  me,  if 
you  know,  who  he  is,  and  what  is  his  name. 

Who  is  he  that  cometh  from  the  north,  clothed  in  furs  and  warm 
wool  ?  He  wraps  his  cloak  close  about  him.  His  head  is  bald ;  his 
beard  is  made  of  sharp  icicles.  He  loves  the  blazing  fire  high  piled  upon 
the  hearth,  and  the  wine  sparkling  in  the  glass.  He  binds  skates  to  his 
feet,  and  skims  over  the  frozen  lakes.  His  breath  is  piercing  and  cold, 
and  no  little  flower  dares  to  peep  above  the  surface  of  the  ground,  when 
he  is  by.  Whatever  he  touches  turns  to  ice.  If  he  were  to  stroke  you 
with  his  cold  hand,  you  would  be  quite  stiff  and  dead,  like  a  piece  of 
marble.  Youths  and  maidens,  do  you  see  him?  He  is  coming  fast  upon 
us,  and  soon  he  will  be  here.  Tell  me,  if  you  know,  who  he  is,  and 
what  is  his  name. 


THE    FARMYARD    JOURNAL.  27 


THE  FARMYARD  JOURNAL. 

"  DEAR  TOM  I — 

"  Since  we  parted  at  the  breaking  up  I  have  been  for  most  of  the  time 
at  a  pleasant  farm  in  Hertfordshire,  where  I  have  employed  myself  in 
rambling  about  the  country  and  assisting,  as  well  as  I  could,  in  the  work 
going  on  at  home  and  in  the  fields.  On  wet  days,  and  in  the  evenings,  I 
have  amused  myself  with  keeping  a  journal  of  all  the  great  events  that 
have  happened  among  us ;  and  hoping  that,  when  you  are  tired  of  the 
bustle  of  your  busy  town,  you  may  receive  some  entertainment  from 
comparing  our  transactions  with  yours,  I  have  copied  out  for  your  perusal, 
one  of  the  days  in  my  memorandum-book. 

"Pray,  let  me  know  in  return  what  you  are  doing,  and  believe  me, 
"  Your  very  affectionate  friend, 

"  Hazel  Farm."  "  Richard  Markwell. 

JOURNAL. 

June  lOtJi.  Last  night  we  had  a  dreadful  alarm.  A  violent  scream 
<vas  heard  from  the  henroost ;  the  geese  all  set  up  a  cackle,  and  the  dogs 
barked.  Ned,  the  boy  who  lies  over  the  stable,  jumped  up,  and  ran  into 
the  yard,  when  he  observed  a  fox  galloping  away  with  a  chicken  in  his 
mouth,  and  the  dogs  in  full  chase  after  him.  They  could  not  overtake 
him,  and  soon  returned.  Upon  further  examination,  the  large  white  cock 
was  found  lying  on  the  ground,  all  bloody,  with  his  comb  torn  almost  off, 
and  his  feathers  all  ruffled,  and  the  speckled  hen  and  three  chickens  lay 
dead  beside  him.  The  cock  recovered,  but  appeared  terribly  frightened. 
It  seems  that  the  fox  had  jumped  over  the  garden-hedge,  and  then 
crossing  part  of  the  yard  behind  the  straw,  had  crept  into  the  henroost 
through  a  broken  pale.  John  the  carpenter  was  sent  for,  10  make  all  fast, 
and  prevent  the  like  mischief  again. 

Early  this  morning  the  brindled  cow  was  delivered  of  a  fine  bull-calf. 
Both  are  likely  to  do  well.     The  calf  is  to  be  fattened  for  the  butcher. 

The  duck-eggs  that  were  sat  upon  by  the  old  black  hen,  were  hatched 
this  day,  and  the  ducklings  all  directly  ran  into  the  pond,  to  the  great 
terror  of  the  hen,  who  went  round  and  round,  clucking  with  all  her 
might  in  order  to  call  them  out,  but  they  did  not  regard  her.  An  old 
drake  took  the  Uttle  ones  under  his  care,  and  they  swam  about  very 
merrily. 


28  SECOND    EVENING. 

As  Dolly  this  morning  was  milking  the  new  cow  that  was  bought  at 
the  fair,  she  kicked  with  her  hind  legs,  and  threw  down  the  milkpail,  at 
the  same  time  knocking  Dolly  off  her  stool  into  the  dirt.  For  this  offence 
the  cow  was  sentenced  to  have  her  head  fastened  to  the  rack,  and  her 
legs  tied  together. 

A  kite  was  observed  to  hover  a  long  while  over  the  yard  with  an 
intention  of  carrying  off  some  of  the  young  chickens,  but  the  hens  called 
their  broods  together  under  their  wings,  and  the  cocks  put  themselves  in 
order  of  battle,  so  that  the  kite  was  disappointed.  At  length,  one  chicken, 
not  minding  its  mother,  but  straggling  heedlessly  to  a  distance,  was 
descried  by  the  kite,  who  made  a  sudden  swoop,  and  seized  it  in  his 
talons.  The  chicken  cried  out,  and  the  cocks  and  hens  all  screamed  ; 
when  Ralph,  the  farmer's  son,  who  saw  the  attack,  snatched  up  a  loaded 
gun,  and  just  as  the  kite  was  flying  off  with  his  prey,  fired  and  brought 
him  dead  to  the  ground,  along  with  the  poor  chicken,  who  was  killed  in 
the  fall.  The  dead  body  of  the  kite  was  nailed  up  against  the  wall,  by 
way  of  a  warning  to  his  wicked  comrades. 

In  the  forenoon  we  were  alarmed  with  strange  noises  approaching  us, 
and  looking  out  we  saw  a  number  of  people  with  frying-pans,  warming- 
pans,  tongs,  and  pokers,  beating,  ringing,  and  making  all  possible  din. 
We  soon  discovered  them  to  be  our  neighbours  of  the  next  farm,  in 
pursuit  of  a  swarm  of  bees  which  was  hovering  in  the  air  over  their 
heads.  The  bees  at  length  alighted  on  the  tall  pear-tree  in  our  orchard, 
and  hung  in  a  bunch  from  one  of  the  boughs.  A  ladder  was  got,  and  a 
man  ascending,  with  gloves  on  his  hands,  and  an  apron  tied  over  his 
head,  swept  them  into  a  hive  which  was  rubbed  on  the  inside  with  honey 
and  sweet  herbs.  But  as  he  was  descending,  some  bees,  which  had  got 
under  his  gloves,  stung  him  in  such  a  manner,  that  he  hastily  threw  down 
the  hive,  upon  which  the  greater  part  of  the  bees  fell  out,  and  began  in  a 
rage  to  fly  among  the  crowd,  and  sting  all  whom  they  lit  upon.  Away 
scampered  the  people,  the  women  shrieking,  the  children  roaring ;  and 
poor  Adam,  who  had  held  the  hive,  was  assailed  so  furiously,  that  he 
was  obliged  to  throw  himself  on  the  ground,  and  creep  under  the  goose- 
berry-bushes. At  length,  the  bees  began  to  return  to  the  hive,  in  which 
the  queen-bee  had  remained;  and  after  a  while,  all  being  quietly  settled, 
a  cloth  was  thrown  over  it,  and  the  swarm  was  carried  home. 

About  noon,  three  pigs  broke  into  the  garden,  where  they  were  rioting 
ipon   the  carrots  and  turnips,  and  doing  a  great   deal  of  mischief  by 


THE  FARMYARD  JOURNAL.  29 

trampling  the  beds  and  rooting  up  the  plants  with  their  snouts,  when 
they  were  spied  by  old  Towzer  the  mastiff,  who  ran  among  them,  and 
laying  hold  of  their  long  ears  with  his  teeth,  made  them  squeal  most 
dismally,  and  get  out  of  the  garden  as  fast  as  they  could. 

Roger  the  ploughman,  when  he  came  for  his  dinner,  brought 
word  that  he  had  discovered  a  partridge's  nest  with  sixteen  eggs  in  the 
home-field.  Upon  which  the  farmer  went  out  and  broke  them  all ; 
saying,  that  he  did  not  choose  to  rear  birds  upon  his  corn,  which  he  was 
not  allowed  to  catch,  but  must  leave  to  some  qualified  sportsman,  who 
would  besides  break  down  his  fences  in  the  pursuit. 

A  sheep-washing  was  held  this  day  at  the  mill-pool,  when  seven-score 
were  well  washed,  and  then  penned  in  the  high  meadow  to  dry.  Many 
of  them  made  great  resistance  at  being  thrown  into  the  water;  and  the 
old  ram  being  dragged  to  the  brink  by  a  boy  at  each  horn,  and  a  third 
pushing  behind,  by  a  sudden  spring  threw  two  of  them  into  the  water,  to 
the  great  diversion  of  the  spectators. 

Toward  the  dusk  of  the  evening,  the  squire's  mongrel  greyhound,  which 
had  been  long  suspected  of  worrying  sheep,  was  caught  in  the  fact.  He 
had  killed  two  lambs,  and  was  making  a  hearty  meal  upon  one  of  them, 
when  he  was  disturbed  by  the  approach  of  the  shepherd's  boy,  and  directly 
leaped  the  hedge  and  made  off.  The  dead  bodies  were  taken  to  the 
squire's,  with  an  endictment  of  wilful  murder  against  the  dog.  But 
when  they  came  to  look  for  the  culprit,  he  was  not  to  be  found  in  any 
part  of  the  premises,  and  is  supposed  to  have  fled  his  country  through 
consciousness  of  his  heinous  offence. 

Joseph,  who  sleeps  in  the  garret  at  the  old  end  of  the  house,  after 
having  been  some  time  in  bed,  came  down  stairs  in  his  shirt,  as  pale  as 
ashes,  and  frightened  the  maids,  who  were  going  up.  It  was  some  time 
before  he  could  tell  what  was  the  matter;  at  length,  he  said  he  had  hear  I 
some  dreadful  noises  overhead,  which  he  was  sure  must  be  made  by  some 
ghost  or  evil  spirit ;  nay,  he  thought  he  had  seen  something  moving, 
though  he  owned  he  durst  hardly  lift  up  his  eyes.  He  concluded  witn 
declaring,  that  he  would  rather  sit  up  all  night  in  the  kitchen  than  go  to 
his  room  again.  The  maids  were  almost  as  much  alarmed  as  he,  and  did 
not  know  what  to  do ;  but  their  master  overhearing  their  talk,  came  out 
and  insisted  upon  their  accompanying  him  to  the  spot,  in  order  to  search 
into  the  affair.  They  all  went  into  the  garret,  and  for  a  while  heard 
nothing ;  when  their  master  ordered  the  candle  to  be  taken  awav,  and 


30  SECOND    EVENING. 

every  one  to  keep  quite  still.  Joseph  and  the  maids  stuck  close  to  each 
other,  and  trembled  every  limb.  At  length,  a  kind;  of  groaning  or 
snoring  began  to  be  heard,  which  grew  louder  and  louder,  with  intervals 
of  a  strange  sort  of  hissing.  "That's  it!"  whispered  Joseph,  drawing 
back  toward  the  door  —  the  maids  were  ready  to  sink,  and  even  the 
farmer  himself  was  a  little  disconcerted.  The  noise  seemed  to  come 
from  the  rafters  near  the  thatch.  In  a  while  a  glimpse  of  moonlight 
shining  through  a  hole  at  the  place,  plainly  discovered  the  shadow  of 
something  stirring ;  and  on  looking  intently,  something  like  feathers 
was  perceived.  The  farmer  now  began  to  suspect  what  the  case  was ; 
and  ordering  up  a  short  ladder  bid  Joseph  climb  to  the  spot,  and  thrust 
his  hand  into  the  hole.  This  he  did  rather  unwillingly,  and  soon  drew 
it  back,  crying  loudly  that  he  was  bit.  However,  gathering  courage,  he 
put  it  in  again,  and  pulled  out  a  large  white  owl,  another  at  tne  same 
time  being  heard  to  fly  away.  The  cause  of  the  alarm  was  now  made 
clear  enough ;  and  poor  Joseph,  after  being  heartily  jeered  by  the  maids, 
though  they  had  been  as  much  frightened  as  he,  sneaked  into  bed,  and 
the  house  soon  became  quiet. 


THE  PRICE  OF  PLEASURE. 

"  I  think  I  will  take  a  ride,"  said  the  little  Lord  Linger,  after  break- 
fast ;  "bring  me  my  boots,  and  let  my  horse  be  brought  to  the  door." 

The  horse  was  saddled,  and  his  lordship's  spurs  were  putting  on. 

"  No,"  said  he,  "  I  '11  have  my  low  chair  and  the  ponies,  and  take  a  drive 
round  the  park." 

The  horse  was  led  back,  and  the  ponies  were  almost  harnessed,  when 
his  lordship  sent  his  valet  to  countermand  them.  He  would  walk  into 
the  cornfield,  and  see  how  the  new  pointer  hunted. 

"  After  all,"  says  he,  "  I  think  I  will  stay  at  home,  and  play  a  game  or 
two  at  billiards." 

He  played  half  a  game,  but  could  not  make  a  stroke  to  please  himself. 
His  tutor,  who  was  present,  now  thought  it  a  good  opportunity  to  ask  his 
lordship  if  he  would  read  a  little. 

"  Why — I  think — I  will ;  for  I  am  tired  of  doing  nothing.  What  shall 
we  have  ?" 

"  Your  lordship  left  off  last  time  in  one  of  the  finest  passages  of  the 
iEneid.     Suppose  we  finish  it  ?" 


THE    FARMYARD    JOURNAL.  31 

"Well — ay  ;  but— no — 1  had  rather  go  on  with  Hume's  nistory.  Or — 
suppose  we  do  some  geography  ?" 

"  With  all  my  heart.     The  globes  are  upon  the  study-table  " 

They  went  to  the  study ;  and  the  little  lord,  leaning  upon  his  elbows, 
looked  at  the  globe — then  twirled  it  round  two  or  three  times — and  then 
listened  patiently  while  the  tutor  explained  some  of  its  parts  and  uses. 
But  while  he  was  in  the  midst  of  a  problem,  "  Come,"  said  his  lordship, 
"  now  for  a  little  Virgil." 

The  book  was  brought ;  and  the  pupil,  with  a  good  deal  of  help,  got 
through  twenty  lines. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  ringing  the  bell,  "  I  think  we  have  done  a  good  deal. 
Tom  !  bring  my  bow  and  arrows." 

The  fine  London-made  bow,  in  its  green  case,  and  the  quiver  with  all 
its  appertenances,  were  brought,  and  his  lordship  went  down  to  the  place 
where  the  shooting-butts  were  erected.  He  aimed  a  few  shots  at  the 
target,  but  not  coming  near  it,  he  shot  all  the  remainder  at  random,  and 
then  ordered  out  his  horse. 

He  sauntered,  with  a  servant  at  his  heels,  for  a  mile  or  two  through 
the  lanes,  and  came,  just  as  the  clock  struck  twelve,  to  a  village-green, 
close  by  which  a  school  was  kept.  A  door  flew  open,  and  out  burst  a 
shoal  of  boys,  who,  spreading  over  the  green,  with  immoderate  vocifera- 
tion, instantly  began  a  variety  of  sports.  Some  fell  to  marbles,  some  to 
trap-ball,  some  to  leap-frog.  In  short,  not  one  of  the  whole  crew  but  was 
eagerly  employed.  Everything  was  noise,  motion,  and  pleasure.  Lord 
Linger,  riding  slowly  up,  espied  one  of  his  tenants'  sons,  who  had  been 
formerly  admitted  as  a  playfellow  of  his,  and  called  him  from  the  throng. 

"  Jack,"  said  he,  "  how  do  you  like  school  ?" 

"  O,  pretty  well,  my  lord." 

"  What — have  you  a  good  deal  of  play  ?" 

"  O  no  !  We  have  only  from  twelve  to  two  for  playing  and  eating  our 
dinners ;  and  then  an  hour  before  supper." 

"  That  is  very  little,  indeed  !" 

"  But  we  play  heartily  when  we  do  play,  and  work  when  we  work. 
Good-by,  my  lord  !  it  is  my  turn  to  go  in  at  trap  !" 

So  saying,  Jack  ran  off. 
I  wish  I  was  a  school-boy  !"  cried  the  little  lord  to  himself. 


32  SECOND    EVENING 


THE  RAT  WITH  A  BELL.— A  Fable. 

A  large  old  house  in  the  country  was  so  extremely  infested  with  rats 
that  nothing  could  be  secured  from  their  depredations.  They  scaled  the 
wells  to  attack  flitchers  of  bacon,  though  hung  as  high  as  the  ceiling. 
Hanging  shelves  afforded  no  protection  to  the  cheese  and  pastry.  They 
penetrated  by  sap  into  the  store-room,  and  plundered  it  of  preserves  and 
sweetmeats.  They  gnawed  through  cupboard- doors,  undermined  floors, 
and  ran  races  behind  the  wainscots.  The  cats  could  not  get  at  them ; 
they  were  too  cunning  and  too  well  fed  to  meddle  with  poison;  and  traps 
only  now  and  then  caught  a  heedless  straggler.  One  of  these,  however, 
on  being  taken,  was  the  occasion  of  practising  a  new  device.  This  was, 
to  fasten  a  collar  with  a  small  bell  about  the  prisoner's  neck,  and  then 
turn  him  loose  again. 

Overjoyed  at  the  recovery  of  his  liberty^  the  rat  ran  into  the  nearest 
hole,  and  went  in  search  of  his  companions.  They  heard  at  a  distance 
the  bell  tinkle-tinkle  through  the  dark  passages,  and  suspecting  some 
enemy  had  got  among  them,  away  they  scoured,  some  one  way  and  some 
another.  The  bell-bearer  pursued  ;  and  soon  guessing  the  cause  of  their 
flight,  he  was  greatly  amused  by  it.  Wherever  he  approached,  it  was  all 
hairy-scurry,  and  not  a  tail  of  one  of  them  was  to  be  seen.  He  chased 
his  old  friends  from  hole  to  hole,  and  room  to  room,  laughing  all  the 
while  at  their  fears,  and  increasing  them  by  all  the  means  in  his  power. 
Presently,  he  had  the  whole  house  to  himself.  "  That's  right,"  quoth  he, 
"  the  fewer  the  better  cheer."  So  he  rioted  alone  among  the  good  things, 
ard  stuffed  till  he  could  hardly  walk. 

For  two  or  three  days  this  course  of  life  went  on  very  pleasantly.  He 
ate,  and  ate,  and  played  the  bugbear  to  perfection.  At  length,  he  grew  tired 
of  this  lonely  condition,  and  longed  to  mix  with  his  companions  again 
upon  the  former  footing.  But  the  difficulty  was,  how  to  get  rid  of  his 
bell.  He  pulled  and  tugged  with  his  fore-feet,  and  almost  wore  the  skin 
off  his  neck  in  the  attempt,  but  all  in  vain.  The  bell  was  now  his  plague 
and  torment.  He  wandered  from  room  to  room  earnestly  desiring  to 
make  himself  known  to  one  of  his  companions,  but  they  all  kept  out  of 
his  reach.  At  last,  as  he  was  moping  about  disconsolate  he  fell  in  puss's 
way,  and  was  devoured  in  an  instant. 

He  who  is  raised  so  much  above  his  fellow-creatures  as  to  be  the  object 


DOG    BALKED    OF    HIS    DINNER.  33 

of  their  terror,  must  suffer  for  it  in  losing  all  the  comforts  of  society.  He 
is  a  solitary  being  in  the  midst  of  crowds.  He  keeps  them  at  a  distance, 
and  they  equally  shun  him.    Dread  and  affection  cannot  subsist  together. 


THE  DOG  BALKED  OF  HIS  DINNER.-A  Tale. 

Think  yourself  sure  of  nothing  till  you've  got  it: 

This  is  the  lesson  of  the  day. 

In  metaphoric  language  I  might  say, 
Count  not  your  bird  before  you  Ve  shot  it. 

duoth  Proverb,  "'Twixt  the  cup  and  lip 

There  's  many  a  slip." 
Not  every  guest  invited  sits  at  table, 
So  says  my  fable. 

A  man  once  gave  a  dinner  to  his  friend  ; 
His  friend  ! — his  patron  I  should  rather  think 
By  all  the  loads  of  meat  and  drink, 

And  fruits  and  gellies  without  end, 

Sent  home  the  morning  of  the  feast. 

Jowler,  his  dog,  a  social  beast, 
Soon  as  he  smelt  the  matter  out,  away 
Scampers  to  old  acquaintance  Tray, 

And,  with  expressions  kind  and  hearty, 

Invites  him  to  the  party. 
Tray  wanted  little  pressing  to  a  dinner  ; 
He  was,  in  truth,  a  gormandizing  sinner. 

He  lick'd  his  chops,  and  wagg'd  his  tail , 

"  Dear  friend !"  he  cried,  "  I  will  not  fail 

But  what 's  your  hour  ?" 

"  We  dine  at  four; 
But  if  you  come  an  hour  too  soon, 
You'll  find  there's  something  to  be  done." 

His  friend  withdrawn,  Tray,  full  of  glee, 
As  blithe  as  blithe  could  be, 
Skipp'd,  danced,  and  play'd  full  many  an  antic 
Like  one  half  frantic, 

3 


34  SECOND    EVENING 

Then  sober  m  the  sun  lay  winking, 
But  could  not  sleep  for  thinking. 
He  thought  o'er  every  dainty  dish, 

Fried,  boil'd  and  roast, 
Flesh,  fowl,  and  fish, 

With  tripes  and  toast, 
Fit  for  a  dog  to  eat ; 
And  in  his  fancy  made  a  treat, 

Might  grace  a  bill  of  fare 

For  my  lord-mayor. 
At  length,  just  on  the  stroke  of  three, 

Forth  sallied  he ; 
And  through  a  well-known  hole 

He  slyly  stole 
Pop  on  the  scene  of  action. 
Here  he  beheld,  with  wondrous  satisfaction 
All  hands  employ'd  in  drawing,  stuffing, 

Skewering,  spitting,  and  basting; 
The  red-faced  cook  sweating  and  puffing, 

Chopping,  mixing,  and  tasting. 
Tray  skulk'd  about,  now  here,  now  there 

Peep'd  into  this,  and  smelt  at  that, 

And  lick'd  the  gravy,  and  the  fat, 
And  cried,  "  O  rare  !  how  I  shall  fare  !" 

But  Fortune,  spiteful  as  Old  Nick, 
Resolved  to  play  our  dog  a  trick ; 

She  made  the  cook 

Just  cast  a  look 
Where  Tray,  beneath  the  dresser  lying, 
His  promised  bliss  was  eying. 

A  cook  while  cooking  is  a  sort  of  fury, 

A  maxim  worth  remem'bring,  I  assure  ye. 
Tray  found  it  true, 
And  so  may  you, 
If  e'er  you  choose  to  try. 
"  How  now!"  quoth  she,  {  what's  this  I  spy  ? 
A  nasty  cur !  who  let  him  in  ? 


THE    DOG    BALKED    OF   HIS    DINNER.  35 

Would  he  were  hang'd  with  all  his  kin  ! 
A  pretty  kitchen-guest,  indeed  ! 
But  I  shall  pack  him  off  with  speed." 

So  saying,  on  poor  Tray  she  flew, 

And  dragg'd  the  culprit  forth  to  view ; 
Then,  to  his  terror  and  amazement, 
Whirl'd  him  like  lightning  through  the  casement. 


EVENING  III. 


THE  KID. 

One  bleak  day  in  March,  Sylvia,  returning  from  a  visit  to  the  sheepfold, 
met  with  a  young  kidling  deserted  by  its  dam  on  the  naked  heath.  It  was 
bleating  pitecusly,  and  was  so  benumbed  with  the  cold  that  it  could 
scarcely  stand.  Sylvia  took  it  up  in  her  arms,  and  pressed  it  close  to  her 
l.osom.  She  hastened  home,  and  showing  her  little  foundling  to  her 
parents,  begged  she  might  rear  it  for  her  own.  They  consented ;  and 
Sylvia  immediately  got  a  basketful  of  clean  straw,  and  made  a  bed  for 
him  on  the  hearth.     She  warmed  some  milk,  and  held  it  to  him  in  a  platter 

ft 


THE    KID.  37 

The  poor  creature  drank  it  up  eagerly,  and  then  licked  her  nand  for 
more.  Sylvia  was  delighted.  She  chafed  his  tender  legs  with  her 
warm  hands,  and  soon  saw  him  jump  out  of  his  basket  and  frisk  across 
the  room.     When  full,  he  lay  down  again,  and  took  a  comfortable  nap. 

The  next  day,  the  kid  had  a  name  bestowed  upon  him.  As  he  gaje 
tokens  of  being  an  excellent  jumper,  it  was  Capriole.  He  was  introduced 
to  all  the  rest  of  the  family,  and  the  younger  children  were  allowed  to 
stroke  and  pat  him;  but  Sylvia  would  let  nobody  be  intimate  with  him 
out  herself.  The  great  mastiff  was  charged  not  to  hurt  him,  and  indeed, 
he  had  no  intention  to  do  it. 

Within  a  few  days,  Capriole  followed  Sylvia  all  about  the  house ; 
trotted  by  her  side  into  the  yard  ;  ran  races  with  her  in  the  home-field ; 
fed  out  of  her  hand ;  and  was  declared  pet  and  favourite.  As  the  spring 
advanced,  Sylvia  roamed  in  the  fields,  and  gathered  wild  flowers,  with 
which  she  wove  garlands,  and  hung  them  round  the  kid's  neck.  He 
could  not  be  kept,  however,  from  munching  his  finery  when  he  could 
reach*  it  with  his  mouth.  He  was  likewise  rather  troublesome  in 
thrusting  his  nose  into  the  meal-tub  and  flour-box,  and  following  people 
into  the  dairy,  and  sipping  the  milk  that  was  set  for  cream.  He  now  and 
then  got  a  blow  for  his  intrusion;  but  his  mistress  always  took  his  part, 
and  indulged  him  in  every  liberty. 

Capriole's  horns  now  began  to  bud,  and  a  little  white  beard  sprouted 
at  the  end  of  his  chin.  He  grew  bold  enough  to  put  himself  into  a 
fighting  posture  whenever  he  was  offended.  He  butted  down  little  Colin 
into  the  dirt ;  quarrelled  with  the  geese  for  their  allowance  of  corn ;  and 
held  many  a  stout  battle  with  the  old  turkey-cock.  Everybody  said, 
"  Capriole  is  growing  too  saucy  ;  he  must  be  sent  away,  or  taught  better 
manners."  But  Sylvia  still  stood  his  friend,  and  he  repaid  her  love  with 
many  tender  caresses. 

The  farmhouse  where  Sylvia  lived  was  situated  in  a  sweet  valley,  by 
the  side  of  a  clear  stream  bordered  with  trees.  Above  the  house  rose  a 
sloping  meadow,  and  beyond  that,  was  an  open  common  covered  with 
purple  heath  and  yellow  furze.  Farther  on,  at  some  distance,  rose  a  steep 
hill,  the  summit  of  which  was  a  bare  craggy  rock,  scarcely  accessible  to 
human  feet.  Capriole,  ranging  at  his  pleasure,  often  got  upon  the 
common,  and  was  pleased  with  browsing  the  short  grass  and  wild  herbs 
which  grew  there.  Still,  however,  when  his  mistress  came  to  see  him, 
he  would  run  bounding  at  her  call  and  accompany  her  back  to  the  farm. 


38  THIRD    EVENING. 

One  fine  summer's  day,  Sylvia,  after  having  finished  the  business  of 
the  morning,  wanted  to  play  with  her  kid ;  and  missing  him,  she  went 
to  the  side  of  the  common,  and  called  aloud,  "  Capriole  !  Capriole  !" 
expecting  to  see  him  come  running  to  her  as  usual.  No  Capriole  came. 
She  went  on  and  on,  still  calling  her  kid  with  the  most  endearing 
accents  ;  but  nothing  was  to  be  seen  of  him.  Her  heart  began  to  flutter. 
"  What  can  be  come  of  him  ?  Surely  somebody  must  have  stolen  him  ;  or 
perhaps  the  neighbours'  dogs  have  worried  him.  Oh,  my  poor  Capriole !  my 
dear  Capriole  !     I  shall  never  see  you  again  !"  and  Sylvia  began  to  weep. 

She  still  went  on,  looking  wistfully  all  around,  and  making  the  place 
echo  with  { Capriole  !  Capriole !  where  are  you,  my  Capriole  ?"  till,  a/ 
length,  she  came  to  the  foot  of  the  steep  hill.  She  climbed  up  its  sides 
to  get  a  better  view.  No  kid  was  to  be  seen.  She  sat  down  and  wept 
and  wrung  her  hands.  After  a  while  she  fancied  she  heard  a  bleating 
like  the  well-known  voice  of  her  Capriole.  She  started  up,  and  looked 
toward  the  sound,  which  seemed  a  great  way  overhead.  At  length,  she 
spied,  just  on  the  edge  of  a  steep  crag,  her  Capriole  peeping  over.  She 
stretched  out  her  hands  to  him,  and  began  to  call,  but  with  a  timid  voice, 
lest  in  his  impatience  to  return  to  her,  he  should  leap  down  and  break 
his  neck.  But  there  was  no  such  danger.  Capriole  was  inhaling  the 
fresh  breeze  of  the  mountains,  and  enjoying  with  rapture  the  scenes  for 
which  nature  designed  him.  His  bleating  was  the  expression  of  joy, 
and  he  bestowed  not  a  thought  on  his  kind  mistress,  nor  paid  the  least 
attention  to  her  call.  Sylvia  ascended  as  high  as  she  could  toward  him, 
and  called  louder  and  louder,  but  all  in  vain.  Capriole  leaped  from  rock 
to  rock,  cropped  the  fine  herbage  in  the  clefts,  and  was  quite  lost  in  the 
pleasure  of  his  new  existence. 

Poor  Sylvia  stayed  till  she  was  tired,  and  then  returned  disconsolate 
to  the  farm,  to  relate  her  misfortune.  She  got  her  brothers  to  accompany 
her  back  to  the  hill,  and  took  with  her  a  slice  of  white  bread  and  some 
milk  to  tempt  the  little  wanderer  home.  But  he  had  mounted  still  higher, 
and  had  joined  a  herd  of  companions  of  the  same  species,  with  whom  he 
was  frisking  and  sporting.  He  had  neither  eyes  nor  ears  for  his  old 
friends  of  the  valley.  All  former  habits  were  broken  at  once,  and  he  had 
commenced  free  commoner  of  nature.  Sylvia  came  back  crying,  as 
much  from  vexation  as  sorrow.  "  The  little  ungrateful  thing,"  said  she  ; 
"  so  well  as  I  loved  him,  and  so  kindly  as  I  treated  him,  to  desert  me  in 
this  way  at  last ! — But  he  was  always  a  rover  " 


HOW  TO  MAKE  THE  BEST  OF  IT.         39 

"  Take  care,  then,  Sylvia,"  said  her  mother,  "  how  you  set  your  heart 
upon  rovers  again !" 


HOW  TO  MAKE  THE  BEST  OF  IT. 

Robinet,  a  peasant  of  Lorraine,  after  a  hard  day's  work  at  the  next 
market-town,  was  running  home  with  a  basket  in  his  hand.  "  What  a 
delicious  supper  shall  I  have  !"  said  he  to  himself.  "  This  piece  of  kid 
well  stewed  down,  with  my  onions  sliced,  thickened  with  my  meal,  and 
seasoned  with  my  salt  and  pepper,  will  make  a  dish  for  the  bishop  of  the 
diocess.  Then  I  have  a  good  piece  of  barley-loaf  at  home  to  finish  with. 
How  I  long  to  be  at  it !" 

A  noise  in  the  hedge  now  attracted  his  notice,  and  he  spied  a  squirrel 
nimbly  running  up  a  tree,  and  popping  into  a  hole  between  the  branches. 
"  Ha !"  thought  he,  "  what  a  nice  present  a  nest  of  young  squirrels  will 
be  to  my  little  master !  I'll  try  if  I  can  get  it."  Upon  this,  he  set  down 
his  basket  in  the  road,  and  began  to  climb  the  tree.  He  had  half 
ascended,  when  casting  a  look  at  his  basket,  he  saw  a  dog  with  his  nose 
in  it,  ferreting  out  the  piece  of  kid's  flesh.  He  made  all  possible  speed 
down,  but  the  dog  was  too  quick  for  him,  and  ran  off  with  the  meat  in 
his  mouth.  Robinet  looked  after  him.  "  Well,"  said  he,  "then  I  must 
be  contented  with  soupmaigre — and  no  bad  thing  neither." 

He  travelled  on,  and  came  to  a  little  public-house  by  the  roadside, 
where  an  acquaintance  of  his  was  sitting  on  a  bench  drinking.  He 
invited  Robinet  to  take  a  draught.  Robinet  seated  himself  by  his  friend, 
and  set  his  basket  on  the  bench  close  by  him.  A  tame  raven,  which  was 
kept  at  the  house,  came  slyly  behind  him,  and  perching  on  the  basket, 
stole  away  the  bag  in  which  the  meal  was  tied  up,  and  hopped  off  with 
it  to  his  hole.  Robinet  did  not  perceive  the  theft  till  he  had  got  on  his 
way  again.  He  returned  to  search  for  his  bag,  but  could  hear  no  tidings 
of  it.  "  Well,"  says  he,  "  my  soup  will  be  the  thinner  ;  but  I  will  boil  a 
slice  of  bread  with  it,  and  that  will  do  it  some  good  at  least." 

He  went  on  again,  and  arrived  at  a  little  brook,  over  which  was  laid  a 
narrow  plank.  A  young  woman  coming  up  to  pass  at  the  same  time, 
Robinet  gallantly  offered  his  hand.  As  soon  as  she  was  got  to  the 
middle,  either  through  fear  or  sport,  she  shrieked  out,  and  cried  she  was 
falling.  Robinet  hastening  to  support  her  with  his  other  hand,  let  his 
basket  drop  into  the  stream.     As  soon  as  she  was  safe  over,  he  jumped 


40  THIRD    EVENING. 

in  and  recovered  it ;  but  when  he  took  it  out  he  perceived  that  all  the  salt 
was  melted,  and  the  pepper  washed  away.  Nothing  was  now  left  but 
the  onions.  "  Well !"  says  Robinet,  "  then  I  must  sup  to-night  upon 
roasted  onions  and  barley-bread.  Last  night  I  had  the  bread  alone. 
To-morrow  morning  it  will  not  signify  what  I  had."  So  saying,  he 
trudged  on  singing  as  before. 

ORDER  AND  DISORDER.— A  Fairy  Tale. 

Juliet  was  a  clever,  well-disposed  girl,  but  apt  to  be  heedless.  She 
could  learn  her  lessons  very  well,  but  commonly  as  much  time  was 
taken  up  in  getting  her  things  together  as  in  doing  what  she  was  set 
about.  If  she  was  at  work,  there  was  generally  the  housewife  to  seek 
in  one  place,  and  the  thread-papers  in  another.  The  scizzors  were  left  in 
her  pocket  upstairs,  and  the  thimlle  was  rolling  about  the  floor.  In 
writing,  the  copybook  was  generally  missing,  the  ink  dried  up,  and  the 
pens,  new  and  old,  all  tumbled  about  the  cupboard.  The  slate  and  slate- 
pencil  were  never  found  together.  In  making  her  exercises,  the  English 
dictionary  always  came  to  hand  instead  of  the  French  grammar ;  and 
when  she  was  to  read  a  chapter,  she  usually  got  hold  of  Robinson 
Crusoe,  or  the  World  Displayed,  instead  of  the  Testament. 

Juliet's  mamma  was  almost  tired  of  teaching  her,  so  she  sent  her  to 
make  a  visit  to  an  old  lady  in  the  country,  a  very  good  woman,  but  rather 
strict  with  young  folks.  Here  she  was  shut  up  in  a  room  above  stairs  by 
herself  after  breakfast  every  day,  till  she  had  quite  finished  the  tasks  set 
her.  This  house  was  one  of  the  very  few  that  are  still  haunted  by  fairies. 
One  of  these,  whose  name  was  Disorder,  took  a  pleasure  in  plaguing 
poor  Juliet.  She  was  a  frightful  figure  to  look  at,  being  crooked  and 
squint-eyed,  with  her  hair  hanging  about  her  face,  and  her  dress  put  on 
all  awry,  and  full  of  rents  and  tatters.  She  prevailed  on  the  old  lady  to 
let  her  set  Juliet  her  tasks ;  so  one  morning  she  came  up  with  a  workbag 
full  of  threads  of  silk  of  all  sorts  of  colours,  mixed  and  entangled  together, 
and  a  flower  very  nicely  worked  to  copy.  It  was  a  pansy,  and  the 
gradual  melting  of  its  hues  into  one  another  was  imitated  with  great 
accuracy  and  beauty.  "  Here,  miss,"  said  she,  "  my  mistress  has  sent 
you  a  piece  of  work  to  do,  and  she  insists  upon  having  it  done  before  you 
come  down  to  dinner.     You  will  find  all  the  materials  in  this  bag." 

Juliet  took  the  flower  and  the  bag,  and  turned  out  all  the  silks  upon 


ORDER    AND    DISORDER.  41 

the  table.  She  slowly  pulled  out  a  red  and  a  purple,  and  a  blue  and  a 
yellow,  and  at  length  fixed  upon  one  to  begin  working  with.  After 
taking  two  or  three  stitches,  and  looking  at  her  model,  she  found  another 
shade  was  wanted.  This  was  to  be  hunted  out  from  the  bunch,  and  a 
long  while  it  took  her  to  find  it.  It  was  soon  necessary  to  change  it  for 
another.  Juliet  saw  that,  in  going  on  at  this  rate,  it  would  take  days 
instead  of  hours  to  work  the  flower,  so  she  laid  down  the  needle  and  fell 
a  crying.  After  this  had  continued  some  time,  she  was  startled  at  the 
sound  of  something  stamping  on  the  floor;  and  taking  her  handkerchiel 
from  her  eyes,  she  spied  a  diminutive  female  figure  advancing  toward 
her.  She  was  upright  as  an  arrow,  and  had  not  so  much  as  a  hair  out  of 
its  place,  or  the  least  article  of  her  dress  rumpled  or  discomposed.  When 
she  came  up  to  Juliet,  "  My  dear,"  said  she,  "  I  heard  you  crying,  and 
knowing  you  to  be  a  good  girl  in  the  main,  I  am  come  to  your  assistance. 
My  name  is  Order :  your  mamma  is  well  acquainted  with  me,  though 
this  is  the  first  time  you  ever  saw  me ;  but  I  hope  we  shall  know  one 
another  better  for  the  future."  She  then  jumped  upon  the  table,  and  with 
a  wand  gave  a  tap  upon  the  heap  of  entangled  silk. — Immediately  the 
threads  separated,  and  arranged  themselves  in  a  long  row  consisting 
of  little  skeins,  in  which  all  of  the  same  colour  were  collected  together, 
those  approaching  nearest  in  shade  being  placed  next  each  other.  This 
done,  she  disappeared.  Juliet,  as  soon  as  her  surprise  was  over,  resumed 
her  work,  and  found  it  go  on  with  ease  and  pleasure.  She  finished  the 
flower  by  dinner-time,  and  obtained  great  praise  for  the  neatness  of  the 
execution. 

The  next  day  the  ill-natured  fairy  came  up,  with  a  great  book  under 
her  arm.  "  This,"  said  she,  "  is  my  mistress's  housebook,  and  she  says 
you  must  draw  out  against  dinner  an  exact  account  of  what  it  has  cost 
her  last  year  in  all  the  articles  of  housekeeping,  including  clothes,  rent, 
taxes,  wages,  and  the  like.  You  must  state  separately  the  amount  of 
every  article,  under  the  heads  of  baker,  butcher,  milliner,  shoemaker,  and 
so  forth,  taking  special  care  not  to  miss  a  single  thing  entered  down  in 
the  book.  Here  is  a  quire  of  paper  and  a  parcel  of  pens."  So  saying, 
with  a  malicious  grin,  she  left  her. 

Julia  turned  pale  at  the  very  thought  of  the  task  she  had  to  perform. 
She  opened  the  great  book,  and  saw  all  the  pages  closely  written,  but 
in  the  most  confused  manner  possible.  Here  was,  "Paid  Mr.  Crusty 
for  a  week's  bread  and  baking  "  so  much.     Then,  "  Paid  Mr.  Pinchtoe 


42  THIRD    EVENING. 

for  shoes,"  so  much.  "  Paid  half  a  year's  rent,"  so  much.  Then  came 
a  butcher's  bill,  succeeded  by  a  milliner's,  and  that  by  a  tallow-chandler's. 
"  What  shall  I  do  ?  "  cried  poor  Juliet — "  where  am  I  to  begin,  and  how 
can  I  possibly  pick  out  all  these  things'?  Was  ever  such  a  tedious,  per- 
plexing task  ?  O  that  my  good  little  creature  were  here  again  with  her 
wand !" 

She  had  but  just  uttered  these  words  when  the  fairy  Order  stood  before 
her.  "  Do  n't  be  startled,  my  dear,"  said  she ;  "  I  knew  your  wish,  and 
made  haste  to  comply  with  it.  Let  me  see  your  book."  She  turned 
over  a  few  leaves,  and  then  cried,  "I  see  my  crossgrained  sister  has 
played  you  a  trick.  She  has  brought  you  the  daybook  instead  of  the 
leger ;  but  I  will  set  the  matter  to  rights  instantly."  She  vanished, 
and  presently  returned  with  another  book,  in  which  she  showed  Juliet 
every  one  of  the  articles  required,  standing  at  the  tops  of  the  pages,  and 
all  the  particulars  entered  under  them  from  the  daybook ;  so  that  there 
was  nothing  for  her  to  do  but  cast  up  the  sums,  and  copy  out  the  heads 
with  their  amount  in  single  lines.  As  Juliet  was  a  ready  accountant,  she 
was  not  long  in  finishing  the  business,  and  produced  her  account  neatly 
written  on  one  sheet  of  paper,  at  dinner. 

The  next  day,  Juliet's  tormentor  brought  her  up  a  large  box  full  of 
letters  stamped  upon  small  bits  of  ivory,  capitals  and  common  letters  ot 
all  sorts,  but  jumbled  together  promiscuously,  as  if  they  had  been  shaken 
in  a  bag.  "  Now,  miss,"  said  she,  "before  you  come  down  to  dinner,  you 
must  exactly  copy  out  this  poem  in  these  ivory  letters,  placing  them  line 
by  line  on  the  floor  of  your  room." 

Juliet  thought  at  first  that  this  task  would  be  pretty  sport  enough  ;  but 
when  she  set  about  it,  she  found  such  trouble  in  hunting  out  the  letters 
she  wanted,  every  one  seeming  to  come  to  hand  before  the  right  one,  that 
she  proceeded  very  slowly  ;  and  the  poem  being  a  long  one,  it  was  plain 
that  night  would  come  before  it  was  finished.  Sitting  down  and  crying 
for  her  kind  friend  was,  therefore,  her  only  resource. 

Order  was  not  far  distant,  for,  indeed,  she  had  been  watching  her 
proceedings  all  the  while.  She  made  herself  visible,  and  giving  a  tap 
on  the  letters  with  her  wand,  they  immediately  arranged  themselves 
alphabetically  in  little  double  heaps,  the  small  in  one,  and  the  great  in 
the  other.  After  this  operation,  Juliet's  task  went  on  with  such  expedi- 
tion, that  she  called  up  the  old  lady  an  hour  before  dinner,  to  be  witness 
to  its  completion. 


X 


LIVE    DOLLS.  43 

The  good  lady  kissed  her,  and  told  her,  that  as  she  hoped  she  was  now 
made  fully  sensible  of  the  benefits  of  order,  and  the  inconveniences  of 
disorder,  she  would  not  confine  her  any  longer  to  work  by  herself  at  set 
tasks,  but  she  should  come  and  sit  with  her.  Juliet  took  such  pains  to 
please  her,  by  doing  everything  with  the  greatest  neatness  and  regularity, 
and  reforming  all  her  careless  habits,  that  when  she  was  sent  back  to  her 
mother,  the  following  presents  were  made  her,  constantly  to  remind  her 
of  the  beauty  and  advantage  of  order : — 

A  cabinet  of  English  coins,  in  which  all  the  gold  and  silver  money  of 
the  kings  was  arranged  in  the  order  of  their  reigns. 

A  set  of  plaster  casts  of  the  Roman  emperors. 

A  cabinet  of  beautiful  shells,  displayed  according  to  the  most  approved 
system. 

A  very  complete  box  of  water-colours,  and  another  of  crayons,  sorted 
m  all  the  shades  of  the  primary  colours. 

And  a  very  nice  housewife,  with  all  the  implements  belonging  to  a 
seamstress,  and  a  good  store  of  the  best  needles  in  sizes. 


LIVE  DOLLS. 

Mr3.  Lacour  was  accustomed  to  lay  out  for  her  daughter,  a  girl  about 
eight  years  old,  a  great  deal  of  money  in  playthings.  One  morning  Eliza 
(that  was  her  name)  was  in  raptures  over  a  new  wax-doll,  which  her 
mamma  had  given  two  guineas  for  in  Fleet  street.  By  means  of  a 
concealed  wire,  it  had  been  made  to  open  and  shut  its  eyes,  to  the  no  small 
surprise  of  the  little  girl,  not  unmixed  with  a  certain  degree  of  terror, 
when  her  mother  first  exhibited  the  phenomenon ;  but  having  had  the 
principle  explained  to  her,  she  had  spent  the  greatest  part  of  the  morning 
in  moving  the  wires  up  and  down,  and  making  them  alternately  open  and 
shut  the  eyelids.  It  is  true  the  mechanism  had  one  defect,  which  we 
record,  in  hopes  that  the  ingenuity  of  future  doll-makers  may  find  a 
remedy  for  it.  The  doll  shut  her  eyes  after  the  manner  of  a  bird,  by  drawing 
up  the  membrane  over  the  eye,  instead  of  letting  the  eyelid  fall  over 
it,  as  is  the  custom  in  human  creatures ;  but  as  Eliza  had  not  studied 
comparative  anatomy,  this  slight  irregularity  was  not  noticed.  She  was 
still  in  raptures  over  her  new  acquisition,  when  she  was  surprised  by  a 
visit  from  Mrs.  Dorcas,  a  maiden  sister  of  her  father,  who  sometimes 
called  upon  her.     "  Look  here,  my  dear  aunt,"  said  she,  "  what  a  charming 


44  THIRD    EVENING. 

doll  I  have  got ;  see,  now  its  eyes  are  shut,  now  they  are  open  again-— . 
how  curious !  I  dare  say  you  cannot  guess  how  I  do  it.  I  can  hardly 
help  fancying  it  alive.  To-morrow  I  phall  begin  to  dress  it,  for  it  must 
have  a  fine  worked  cap,  with  a  laced  border,  and  a  long  muslin  robe  and 
shoes.  I  do  not  know  whether  it  should  have  shoes  yet,  for  it  is  only  a 
baby  ;  and  I  shall  lay  it  in  the  cradle,  and  rock  it ;  and  when  I  want  it 
to  go  to  sleep,  its  eyes  shall  be  shut,  and  in  the  morning  they  shall  be  open 
again,  just  as  if  it  were  really  alive :  I  wish  it  could  eat  and  drink — why 
could  they  not  make  its  mouth  to  open  V1 

Mrs.  J). — Your  doll  is  very  pretty,  indeed,  and  I  commend  you  for 
intending  to  make  its  clothes  yourself,  but  would  not  you  like  better  to 
have  a  real  live  doll  to  dress  ? 

Eliza. — O  yes  !  that  I  should,  indeed  ;  but  I  believe — I  am  afraid  there 
is  no  such  doll. 

Mrs.  D. — I  will  find  you  such  a  one  if  you  will  dress  it. 

Eliza. — And  will  it  open  its  mouth  and  eat  ? 

Mrs.  D.— Yes,  it  will. 

Eliza. — And  can  it  speak,  too  ? 

Mrs.  D. — I  do  not  say  it  can  speak  yet ;  it  has  not  been  taught ;  but 
you  shall  hear  its  voice,  and  you  shall  see  it  breathe ;  your  doll  does  not 
breathe.  [Eliza  took  her  doll  and  placed  her  hand  upon  its  waxen  bosom, 
as  if  she  expected  to  feel  it  heave.]  And  the  clothes  you  will  make  will 
warm  it  too.  A  wax-doll  is  not  warmed  by  its  clothes.  Your  doll  is  as 
cold  when  she  is  wrapped  up  in  a  quilt  and  placed  in  the  cradle  as  if  she 
were  laid  naked  upon  a  marble  slab. 

Eliza. — Is  she  ? 

Mrs.  D. — Yes;  you  may  convince  yourself  of  that  whenever  you 
please ;  but  this  live  doll  will  not  only  be  warmed  by  the  clothes  you  make, 
but  perhaps  she  may  die  if  you  do  not  make  them. 

Eliza. — O  !  do  not  let  her  die — I  will  set  about  making  the  clothes 
directly. 

Mrs.  D. — Then  come  along  with  me. 

Eliza  sallied  forth  with  her  aunt  Dorcas :  she  was  all  the  way  silent, 
and  breathless  with  expectation.  After  leading  her  through  a  few  streets, 
her  aunt  stopped  at  a  house,  and  asked  to  be  shown  into  the  workroom. 
It  was  a  room  where  a  number  of  young  girls  were  sitting  at  a  long  table, 
with  cheerful  and  busy  looks.  The  table  was  covered  with  workbags, 
needlecases  thread-papers,  and  such  like  sewing  implements,  and  spread 


A; 
LIVE    DOLLS.  45 

tfith  flannel,  calico,  dimity,  and  old  linen ;  one  of  the  girls  was  making  a 
^ap,  another  a  petticoat,  a  third  a  frock — the  elder  ones  were  cutting  out 
ihe  cloth1— some  of  the  little  ones  were  stretching  out  their  hands  to  hold 
i  skein  of  thread  for  the  others  to  wind;  not  one  was  unemployed. 
1  What  are  they  all  doing  ?"  said  Eliza. 

Mrs.  D. — They  are  all  working  for  live  dolls. 

Eliza. — But  where  are  the  dolls  ? 

Mrs.  D. — You  cannot  see  them  yet ;  they  would  suffer  if  the  clothes 
were  not  prepared  for  them  before  they  came. 

Eliza. — But  here  are  no  laces  nor  worked  muslins ;  here  is  nothing 
very  pretty. 

Mrs.  D. — No,  because  pretty  things  seldom  have  the  property  of  keeping 
tne  wearers  warm. 

Eliza. — But  who  are  they  working  for  ? 

At  that  instant,  a  woman,  with  a  child  upon  her  bosom,  pale,  but  with 
a  countenance  shining  with  joy  and  gratitude,  entered  the  workroom, 
pouring  out  her  thanks  to  the  good  young  ladies,  as  she  truly  called  them, 
for  their  welltimed  bounty.  "  But  for  you,"  she  said,  "  this  dear  little 
infant  might  perhaps  have  perished,  or  at  least  its  little  limbs  would  have 
been  chilled  with  cold  for  want  of  good  and  substantial  clothing.  My 
husband  was  ill,  and  could  not  work,  and  I  had  no  money  to  buy  any- 
thing but  necessary  food.  If  I  could  have  bought  the  materials,  or  if  you 
had  given  them  me,  I  could  not  have  cut  them  out  and  contrived  them, 
and  made  them  up  myself:  for  I  was  never  taught  to  be  handy  at  my 
needle  as  you  have  been,  ladies.  I  was  only  set  to  coarse  work.  Look 
what  a  sweet  little  infant  it  is,  and  how  comfortable  he  looks.  God  bless 
you,  dear  ladies  !  and  make  you  all  happy  wives  and  mothers,  when  the 
time  comes !"  The  girls,  with  great  pleasure,  rose  when  she  had  finished 
her  address  to  them ;  and  after  congratulating  the  mother,  took  the  infant, 
and  handing  it  from  one  to  another,  kissed  and  played  with  it.  Eliza, 
too,  advanced,  but  timidly,  and  as  if  she  had  not  yet  earned  a  right  to 
caress  it.  "  Approach,  my  niece,"  said  Mrs.  Dorcas,  "  kiss  the  lips  of 
this  infant,  and  imbibe  that  affection  which  is  one  of  the  characteristics 
of  your  sex.  Women  are  made  to  love  children,  and  they  should  begin 
to  love  them  while  they  themselves  are  children ;  nor  is  there  any  surer 
way  of  learning  to  love  a  being,  than  by  doing  good  to  it.  You  see  now 
why  I  brought  you  hither.  This  is  the  live  doll  I  promised  you;  its 
limbs  are  not  the  work  of  a  clumsy  mechanic,  they  are  fashioned  by 


46  THIRD    EVENING. 

consummate  wisdom  and  skill,  and  it  will  not  always  remain  as  it  is : 
this  little  frame  has  a  principle  of  improvement  in  it — it  has  powers  that 
will  unfold  themselves  by  degrees — the  limbs  will  stretch  and  grow ; 
after  a  while  it  will  walk,  it  will  speak,  it  will  play,  it  will  be  like  one  of 
you.  How  precious  then  is  the  life  of  such  a  creature !  But  it  has  pleased 
the  Creator  of  all  things  that  this  excellent  being  should  come  into  the 
world  naked  and  helpless;  it  has  neither  hair,  nor  wool,  nor  fur,  nor 
feathers  to  keep  it  warm ;  if  not  clothed  and  cherished,  it  would  soon  be 
killed  with  the  cold.  It  is,  therefore,  very  desirable  to  help  those  poor 
people  who  cannot  afford  to  clothe  their  infants,  lest  so  admirable  a  work 
of  God  as  a  human  creature  should  perish  for  want  of  care.  There  is  a 
great  deal  of  pain  and  danger  in  bearing  children  in  any  situation  of  life; 
but  when  people  are  poor  as  well  as  sick,  the  distress  is  very  much 
increased.  These  good  young  ladies,  Eliza,  have  formed  a  society 
among  themselves  for  making  babylinen  for  the  poor.  Nobody  bid  them 
do  it;  it  was  entirely  of  their  own  accord.  They  have  agreed  to  sub- 
scribe a  penny  a  week  out  of  their  little  pocket-money.  A  penny  is  a 
very  small  matter ;  girls  who  have  a  great  deal  of  money  perhaps  would 
not  suppose  it  worth  thinking  about,  but  a  great  many  pennies  every 
week  will  in  time  come  to  a  sum  that  is  not  so  contemptible.  With  this 
they  buy  the  materials,  such  as  warm  flannels,  coarse  printed  cottons, 
and  dimity.  Their  mammas  give  them,  every  now  and  then,  some  fine 
old  linen  and  cast-off  clothes ;  but  the  value  of  their  work  is  a  great  deal 
more  than  that  of  the  materials :  if  they  did  not  cut  and  contrive,  and 
make  them  up,  they  would  be  of  little  service  comparatively  to  the  poor 
people ;  besides,  the  doing  so  will  make  them  clever  managers  when  they 
come  to  have  children  of  their  own.  None  of  these  good  girls  are  above 
fourteen ;  and  they  have  clothed  a  number  of  little  helpless  infants,  and 
made,  as  you  have  seen,  the  mothers'  hearts  very  glad.  Now,  if  you 
wish  it,  I  dare  say  they  will  let  you  work  with  them ;  but  here  is  no 
finery,  and  if  you  like  better  to  work  for  your  wax-doll,  do  so." — "  O,  no !" 
said  Eliza,  "  the  live  doll  for  me ;"  and  she  bespoke  a  place  at  the  long 
worktable. 

THE  HOG  AND  OTHER  ANIMALS. 

A  debate  once  arose  among  the  animals  in  a  farmyard,  which  of  them 
*vas  most  valued  by  their  common  master.     After  the  horse,  the  ox,  the 


THE    HOG    AND    OTHER    ANIMALS.  47 

cow,  the  sheep,  and  the  dog,  had  stated  their  several  pretensions,  the  hog 
took  up  the  discourse. 

"It  is  plain,"  said  he,  "that  the  greatest  value  must  be  set  upon  that 
animal  which  is  kept  most  for  his  own  sake,  without  expecting  from  him 
any  return  of  use  and  service.  Now,  which  of  you  can  boast  so  much  in 
that  respect  as  I  can  ? 

"  As  for  you,  horse,  though  you  are  very  well  fed  and  lodged,  and  have 
servants  to  attend  upon  you,  and  make  you  sleek  and  clean,  yet  all  this  is 
for  the  sake  of  your  labour.  Do  not  I  see  you  taken  out  early  every 
morning,  put  in  chains,  or  fastened  to  the  shafts  of  a  heavy  cart,  and  not 
brought  back  till  noon ;  when,  after  a  short  respite,  you  are  taken  to  work 
again  till  late  in  the  evening  ?  I  may  say  just  the  same  to  the  ox,  except 
that  he  works  for  poorer  fare. 

"  For  you,  Mrs.  Cow,  who  are  so  dainty  over  your  chopped  straw  and 
grains,  you  are  thought  worth  keeping  only  for  your  milk,  which  is  drained 
from  you  twice  a  day  to  the  last  drop,  while  your  poor  young  ones  are 
taken  from  you,  and  sent  I  know  not  whither. 

"  You,  poor  innocent  sheep,  who  are  turned  out  to  shift  for  yourselves 
upon  the  bare  hills,  or  penned  upon  the  fallows  with  now  and  then  a 
withered  turnip  or  some  musty  hay,  you  pay  dearly  enough  for  your  keep 
by  resigning  your  warm  coat  every  year,  for  want  of  which  you  are  liable 
to  be  frozen  to  death  on  some  of  the  cold  nights  before  summer 

"As  for  the  dog,  who  prides  himself  so  much  on  being  admitted  to  our 
master's  table,  and  made  his  companion,  that  he  will  scarce  condescend 
to  reckon  himself  one  of  us,  he  is  obliged  to  do  all  the  offices  of  a  domestic 
servant  by  day,  and  to  keep  watch  during  the  night,  wnile  we  are  quietly 
asleep. 

"  In  short,  you  are  all  of  you  creatures  maintained  for  use — poor  sub- 
servient things,  made  to  be  enslaved  or  pillaged.  I,  on  the  contrary, 
have  a  warm  stye  and  plenty  of  provisions  all  at  free  cost.  I  have  nothing 
to  do  but  grow  fat  and  follow  my  amusement ;  and  my  master  is  best 
pleased  when  he  sees  me  lying  at  ease  in  the  sun,  or  filling  my  belly." 

Thus  argued  the  hog,  and  put  the  rest  to  silence  by  so  much  logic  and 
rhetoric.  This  was  not  long  before  winter  set  in.  It  proved  a  very 
scarce  season  for  fodder  of  all  kinds ;  so  that  the  farmer  began  to  consider 
how  he  was  to  maintain  all  his  live  stock  till  spring.  "It  will  be 
impossible  for  me,"  thought  he,  "  to  keep  them  all ;  I  must  therefore  part 
with  those  I  can  best  snare.     As  for  my  horses  and  working  oxen,  I  shali 


48  THIRD    EVENING. 

have  business  enough  to  employ  them ;  they  must  be  kept,  cost  what  it 
will.  My  cows  will  not  give  me  much  milk  in  the  winter,  but  they  will 
calve  in  the  spring,  and  be  ready  for  the  new  grass.  I  must  not  lose  the 
profit  of  my  dairy.  The  sheep,  poor  things,  will  take  care  of  themselves 
as  long  as  there  is  a  bite  upon  the  hills ;  and  if  deep  snow  comes,  we 
must  do  with  them  as  well  as  we  can  by  the  help  of  a  few  turnips  and 
some  hay,  for  I  must  have  their  wool  at  shearing-time  to  make  out  my 
rent  with.  But  my  hogs  will  eat  me  out  of  house  and  home,  without 
doing  me  any  good.  They  must  go  to  pot,  that 's  certain ;  and  the  sooner 
I  get  rid  of  the  fat  ones,  the  better." 

So  saying,  he  singled  out  the  orator  as  one  of  the  prime  among  them, 
and  sent  him  to  the  butcher  the  very  next  day. 


EVENING  IV. 


THE  BULLIES. 

As  young  Francis  was  walking  through  a  village  with  his  tutor,  they 
were  annoyed  by  two  or  three  cur-dogs,  that  came  running  after  them 
with  looks  of  the  utmost  fury,  snarling  and  barking  as  if  they  would  tear 
their  throats,  and  seeming  every  moment  ready  to  fly  upon  them.  Francis 
every  now  and  then  stopped  and  shook  his  stick  at  them,  or  stooped  down 
to  pick  up  a  stone,  upon  which  the  curs  retreated  as  fast  as  they  came ;  but 
as  soon  as  he  turned  about,  they  Were  after  his  heels  again.  This  lasted 
till  thev  came  to  a  farmyard,  through  which  their  road  lay.    A  large  mastiff 

3  49 


50  FOURTH    EVENING. 

was  lying  down  in  it  at  his  ease  in  the  sun.  Francis  was  almost  afraid 
to  pass  him,  and  kept  as  close  to  his  tutor  as  possible.  However,  the  dog 
took  not  the  least  notice  of  them. 

Presently,  they  came  upon  a  common,  where,  going  near  a  flock  of 
°:eese,  they  were  assailed  with  hissings,  and  pursued  some  way  by  these 
foolish  birds,  which,  stretching  out  their  long  necks,  made  a  very  ridicu- 
lous figure.  Francis  only  laughed  at  them,  though  he  was  tempted  to 
give  the  foremost  a  switch  across  his  neck.  A  little  further  was  a  herd 
of  cows  with  a  bull  among  them,  upon  which  Francis  looked  with  some 
degree  of  apprehension  ;  but  they  kept  quietly  grazing,  and  did  not  take 
their  heads  from  the  ground  as  he  passed. 

"It  is  a  lucky  thing,"  said  Francis  to  his  tutor,  "  that  mastiffs  and  bulls 
are  not  so  quarrelsome  as  curs  and  geese ;  but  what  can  be  the  reason 
of  it?" 

"  The  reason,"  replied  the  tutor,  "  is,  that  paltry  and  contemptible 
animals,  possessing  no  confidence  in  their  own  strength  and  courage,  and 
knowing  themselves  liable  to  injury  from  most  of  those  that  come  in  their 
way,  think  it  safer  to  take  the  part  of  bullies,  and  to  make  a  show  of 
attacking  those  of  whom  in  reality  they  are  afraid :  whereas,  animals 
which  are  conscious  of  force  sufficient  for  their  own  protection,  suspecting 
no  evil  designs  from  others,  entertain  none  themselves,  but  maintain 
dignified  composure. 

"  Thus  you  will  find  it  among  mankind.  Weak,  mean,  petty  characters 
are  suspicious,  snarling,  and  petulant.  They  raise  an  outcry  against  their 
superiors  in  talents  and  reputation,  of  whom  they  stand  in  awe,  and  put 
on  airs  of  defiance  and  insolence  through  mere  cowardice.  But  the  truly 
great  are  calm  and  inoffensive.  They  fear  no  injury,  and  offer  none. 
They  even  suffer  slight  attacks  to  go  unnoticed,  conscious  of  their  power 
to  right  themselves  whenever  the  occasion  shall  seem  to  require  it." 

THE  TRAVELLED  ANT. 

There  was  a  garden  enclosed  with  high  brick  walls,  and  laid  out 
somewhat  in  the  old  fashion.  Under  the  walls  were  wide  beds  planted 
with  flowers,  garden-stuff,  and  fruit-trees.  Next  to  them  was  a  broad 
gravel-walk  running  round  the  garden ;  and  the  middle  was  laid  out  in 
grass-plots,  and  beds  of  flowers  and  shrubs  with  a  fish-pond  in  the  centre. 

Near  the  root  of  one  of  the  wall  fruit-trees,  a  numerous  colony  of  ants 


THE  TRAVELLED  ANT.  5! 

was  established,  which  had  extended  its  subterraneous  works  over  great 
part  of  the  bed  in  its  neighbourhood.  One  day,  two  of  the  inhabitants, 
meeting  in  a  gallery  under  ground,  fell  into  the  following  conversation : — 

"Ha!  my  friend,"  said  the  first,  "is  it  you?  I  am  glad  to  see  you. 
Where  have  you  been  this  long  time  ?  All  your  acquaintance  have  been 
in  pain  about  you,  lest  some  accident  should  have  befallen  you." 

"  Why,"  replied  the  other,  "  I  am,  indeed,  a  sort  of  stranger,  for  you 
must  know  I  am  but  just  returned  from  a  long  journey." 

"  A  journey  !  whither,  pray,  and  on  what  account  ?" 

"  A  tour  of  mere  curiosity.  I  had  long  felt  dissatisfied  with  knowing 
so  little  about  this  world  of  ours ;  so,  at  length,  I  took  a  resolution  to 
explore  it.  And  I  may  now  boast  that  I  have  gone  round  its  utmost 
extremities,  and  that  no  considerable  part  of  it  has  escaped  my 
researches." 

"  Wonderful !  What  a  traveller  you  have  been,  and  what  sights  you 
must  have  seen  !" 

1  Why,  yes — I  have  seen  more  than  most  ants,  to  be  sure  ;  but  it  has 
been  at  the  expense  of  so  much  toil  and  danger,  that  I  know  not  whether 
it  was  worth  the  pains." 

"  Would  you  oblige  me  with  some  account  of  your  adventures  ?" 

"  Willingly  :  I  set  out,  then,  early  one  sunshiny  morning ;  and,  after 
crossing  our  territory  and  the  line  of  plantation  by  which  it  is  borderedj 
I  came  upon  a  wide  open  plain,  where,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  not 
a  single  green  thing  was  to  be  descried,  but  the  hard  soil  was  everywhere 
covered  with  huge  stones,  which  made  travelling  equally  painful  to  the 
eye  and  the  feet.  As  I  was  toiling  onward,  I  heard  a  rumbling  noise 
behind  me,  which  became  louder  and  louder.  I  looked  back,  and  with 
the  utmost  horror  beheld  a  prodigious  rolling  mountain  approaching  me 
so  fast  that  it  was  impossible  to  get  out  of  the  way.  I  threw  myself  Act 
on  the  ground  behind  a  stone,  and  lay  expecting  nothing  but  present  death. 
The  mountain  soon  passed  over  me,  and  I  continued  (I  know  not  how 
long)  in  a  state  of  insensibility.  When  I  recovered,  I  began  to  stretch 
my  limbs  one  by  one,  and,  to  my  surprise,  found  myself  not  in  the  least 
injured  !  but  the  stone  beside  me  was  almost  buried  in  the  earth  by  the 
crash !" 

"  What  an  escape  !" 

"  A  wonderful  one,  indeed.  I  journeyed  on  over  the  desert,  and  at 
length  came  to  the  end   of  it,  and   entered  upon   a  wide  green  tract 


62  FOURTH    EVENING. 

consisting  chiefly  of  tall,  narrow,  pointed  leaves,  which  grew  so  thick 
and  entangled,  that  it  was  with  the  greatest  difficulty  I  could  make  my 
way  between  them ;  and  I  should  continually  have  lost  my  road,  had  I 
not  taken  care  to  keep  the  sun  in  view  before  me.  When  I  had  got  near 
the  middle  of  this  region,  I  was  startled  with  the  sight  of  a  huge  four- v 
legged  monster,  with  a  yellow  speckled  skin,  which  took  a  flying  leap 
directly  over  me.  Somewhat  farther,  before  I  was  aware,  I  ran  upon  one 
of  those  long,  round,  crawling  creatures,  without  head,  tail,  or  legs,  which 
we  sometimes  meet  with  under  ground,  near  our  settlement.  As  soon  as 
ne  felt  me  upon  him,  he  drew  back  into  his  hole  so  swiftly,  that  he  was 
near  drawing  me  in  along  with  him.  However,  I  jumped  off,  and  pro- 
ceeded on  my  way. 

"  With  much  labour  I  got,  at  last,  to  the  end  of  this  perplexed  tract,  and 
came  to  an  open  space  like  that  in  which  we  live,  in  the  midst  of  which  grew 
trees  so  tall  that  I  could  not  see  to  their  tops.  Being  hungry,  I  climbed 
the  first  I  came  to,  in  expectation  of  finding  some  fruit;  but  after  a 
weary  search  I  returned  empty.  I  tried  several  others  with  no  better 
success.  There  were,  indeed,  leaves  and  flowers  in  plenty,  but  nothing 
of  which  I  could  make  a  meal;  so  that  I  might  have  been  famished,  had  1 
not  found  some  sour  harsh  berries  upon  the  ground,  on  which  I  made  a 
poor  repast.  While  I  was  doing  this,  a  greater  danger  than  any  of  the 
former  befell  me.  One  of  those  two-legged  feathered  creatures,  which  we 
often  see  to  our  cost,  jumped  down  from  a  bough,  and  picked  up  in  his 
enormous  beak  the  very  berry  on  which  I  was  standing.  Luckily,  he  did 
not  swallow  it  immediately,  but  flew  up  again  with  it  to  the  tree ;  and,  in 
the  meantime,  I  disengaged  myself,  and  fell  from  a  vast  height  to  the 
ground,  but  received  no  hurt. 

"  I  crossed  this  plantation,  and  came  to  another  entangled  green  like  the 
first.  After  I  had  laboured  through  it,  I  came  on  a  sudden  to  the  side  of 
a  vast  glittering  plain,  the  nature  of  which  I  could  not  possibly  guess  at. 
I  walked  along  a  fallen  leaf  which  lay  on  the  side,  and  coming  to  the 
farther  edge  of  it,  I  was  greatly  surprise  to  see  another  ant  coming  from 
below  to  meet  me.  I  advanced  to  give  him  a  fraternal  embrace;  but 
instead  of  what  I  expected,  I  met  a  cold  yielding  matter,  in  which  I 
should  have  sunk,  had  I  not  speedily  turned  about,  and  caught  hold  of 
the  leaf,  by  which  I  drew  myself  up  again.  And  now  I  found  this  great 
plain  to  consist  of  that  fluid  which  sometimes  falls  from  the  sky,  and  causes 
so  much  trouble  by  filling  our  holes. 


THE    TRAVELLED    ANT.  53 

f  As  I  stood  considering  how  to  proceed  on  my  journey,  a  gentle  breeze 
arose,  which,  before  I  was  aware,  carried  the  leaf  I  was  upon  away  from 
the  solid  land  into  this  yielding  fluid,  which,  however,  bore  it  up  and  me 
along  with  it.  At  first,  I  was  greatly  alarmed,  and  ran  round  and  round 
my  leaf  in  order  to  find  some  way  of  getting  back ;  but  perceiving  this  to 
be  impracticable,  I  resigned  myself  to  my  fate,  and  even  began  to  take 
some  pleasure  in  the  easy  motion  by  which  I  was  borne  forward.  But 
what  new  and  wonderful  forms  of  living  creatures  did  I  see  inhabiting 
this  liquid  land !  Bodies  of  prodigious  bulk,  covered  with  shining  scales 
of  various  colours,  shot  by  me  with  vast  rapidity,  and  sported  a  thousand 
ways.  They  had  large  heads  and  staring  eyes,  tremendous  wide  mouths, 
but  no  legs ;  and  they  seemed  to  be  carried  on  by  the  action  of  something 
like  small  wiDgs  planted  on  various  parts  of  the  body,  and  especially  at 
the  end  of  the  tail,  which  continually  waved  about.  Other  smaller  crea- 
tures, of  a  great  variety  of  extraordinary  forms,  were  moving  through  the 
clear  fluid,  or  resting  upon  its  surface ,  and  I  saw  with  terror  numbers 
of  them  continually  seized  and  swallowed  by  the  larger  ones  before- 
mentioned. 

U  When  I  had  got  near  the  middle,  the  smooth  surface  of  this  plain  was 
all  roughened,  and  moved  up  and  down,  so  as  to  toss  about  my  leaf,  and 
nearly  overset  it.  I  trembled  to  think  what  would  become  of  me,  should 
I  be  thrown  amidst  all  these  terrible  monsters.  At  last,  however,  I  got 
safe  to  the  other  side,  and  with  joy  set  my  feet  on  dry  land  again.  I 
ascended  a  gentle  green  slope,  which  led  to  a  tall  plantation  like  that  I  had 
before  passed  through.  Another  green  plain,  and  another  stony  desert, 
succeeded ;  which  brought  me,  at  length,  to  the  opposite  boundary  of  our 
world,  enclosed  by  the  same  immense  mound  rising  to  the  heavens,  which 
limits  us  on  this  side. 

"  Here  I  fell  in  with  another  nation  of  our  species  differing  little  in 
way  of  life  from  ourselves.  They  invited  me  to  their  settlement,  and 
entertained  me  hospitably,  and  I  accompanied  them  in  several  excursions 
in  the  neighbourhood.  There  was  a  charming  fruit-tree  at  no  great 
distance,  to  which  we  made  frequent  visits.  One  day  as  I  was  regaling 
deliciously  on  the  heart  of  a  green-gage  plum,  I  felt  myself  on  a  sudden 
carried  along  with  great  swiftness,  till  I  got  into  a  dark  place,  where  a 
horrid  crash  threw  me  upon  a  soft  moist  piece  of  flesh,  whence  I  was  soon 
driven  forth  in  a  torrent  of  wind  and  moisture,  and  found  myself  on  the 
ground  all  covered  with  slime.     I  disengaged  mvself  with  difficulty  and 


54  FOURTH    EVENING. 

looking  up,  descried  one  of  those  enormous  two-legged  animals,  which 
often  shake  the  ground  over  our  heads,  and  put  us  in  terror. 

"  My  new  friends  now  began  to  hint  to  me  that  it  was  time  to  depart, 
'for  you  know  we  are  not  fond  of  naturalizing  strangers.'  And  lucky, 
indeed,  it  was  for  me  that  I  received  the  hint  when  I  did ;  for  I  had  but 
just  left  the  place,  and  was  travelling  over  a  neighbouring  eminence, 
when  I  heard  behind  me  a  tremendous  noise  ;  and  looking  back  I  saw  the 
whole  of  their  settlement  blown  into  the  air  with  a  prodigious  explosion  of 
fire  and  smoke.  Numbers  of  half-burnt  bodies,  together  with  the  ruins  of 
their  habitations,  were  thrown  to  a  vast  distance  around  ;  and  such  a  suffo- 
cating vapour  arose,  that  I  lay  for  some  time  deprived  of  sense  and  motion. 
From  some  of  the  wretched  fugitives  I  learned  that  the  disaster  was 
attributed  to  subterranean  fire  bursting  its  way  to  the  surface  :  the  cause  of 
which,  however,  was  supposed  to  be  connected  with  the  machinations  of 
that  malignant  two-legged  monster,  from  whose  jaws  I  had  so  narrowly 
escaped,  who  had  been  observed,  just  before  the  explosion,  t©  pour  through 
the  holes  leading  to  the  great  apartment  of  the  settlement,  a  number  ol 
black  shining  grains. 

"  On  my  return  from  this  remote  country,  I  kept  along  the  boundary- 
wall,  which  I  knew  by  observation  must  at  length  bring  me  back  to  my 
own  home.  I  met  with  several  wandering  tribes  of  our  species  in  my 
road,  and  frequently  joined  their  foraging  parties  in  search  of  food.  One 
day,  a  company  of  us,  allured  by  the  smell  of  something  sweet,  climbed 
some  lofty  pillars,  on  which  was  placed  a  vast  round  edifice,  having 
only  one  entrance.  At  this,  were  continually  going  in  and  coming  out 
those  winged  animals,  somewhat  like  ourselves  in  form,  but  many  times 
bigger,  and  armed  with  a  dreadful  sting,  which  we  so  often  meet  with 
sipping  the  juices  of  flowers  ;  but  whether  they  were  the  architects  of  this 
great  mansion,  or  it  was  built  for  them  by  some  beneficent  being  of  great 
powers,  I  am  unable  to  decide.  It  seemed,  however,  to  be  the  place  where 
they  deposited  what  they  so  industriously  collect ;  for  they  were  perpet- 
ually arriving  loaded  with  a  fragrant  substance,  which  they  carried  in,  and 
then  returned  empty.  We  had  a  great  desire  to  enter  with  them,  but 
were  deterred  by  their  formidable  appearance,  and  a  kind  of  angry  hum, 
which  continually  proceeded  from  the  house.  At  length  two  or  three  of  the 
boldest  of  our  party,  watching  a  time  when  the  entrance  was  pretty  free,  ven- 
tured to  go  in :  but  we  soon  saw  them  driven  out  in  great  haste,  and  trampled 
down  and  massacred  at  the  gateway.     The  rest  of  us  made  a  speedy  retreat. 


THE    TRAVELLED    ANT  55 

"  Two  more  adventures  which  happened  to  me  had  very  nearly  pre- 
vented my  return  to  my  own  country.  Having  one  evening,  together 
with  a  companion,  taken  up  my  quarters  in  an  empty  snail-shell,  there 
came  on  such  a  shower  of  rain  in  the  night,  that  the  shell  was  presently 
filled.  I  awaked  just  suffocated  ;  but,  luckily,  having  my  head  turned 
towards  the  mouth  of  the  shell,  I  rose  to  the  top,  and  made  a  shift  to  crawl 
to  a  dry  place.  My  companion,  who  had  got  farther  into  the  shell,  never 
rose  again. 

"  Not  long  after,  as  I  was  travelling  under  the  wall,  I  descried  a  curious 
pit,  with  a  circular  orifice,  gradually  growing  narrower  to  the  bottom.  On 
coming  close  to  the  brink  in  order  to  survey  it,  the  edge,  which  was  of 
fine  sand,  gave  way  and  I  slid  down  the  pit.  As  soon  as  I  had  reached 
the  bottom,  a  creature  with  a  huge  pair  of  horns  and  dreadful  claws  made 
his  appearance  from  beneath  the  sand,  and  attempted  to  seize  me.  I  flew 
back,  and  ran  up  the  side  of  the  pit ;  when  he  threw  over  me  such  a 
shower  of  sand  as  blinded  me,  and  had  like  to  have  brought  me  down 
again.  However,  by  exerting  all  my  strength,  I  got  out  of  his  reach,  and 
did  not  cease  running  till  I  was  at  a  considerable  distance.  I  was  after- 
ward informed  that  this  was  the  den  of  an  antlion,  a  terrible  foe  of  our 
species,  which,  not  equalling  us  in  speed,  is  obliged  to  make  use  of  this 
crafty  device  to  entrap  his  heedless  prey. 

"  This  was  the  last  of  my  perils.  To  my  great  joy,  I  reached  my  native 
place  last  night,  where  I  mean  to  stay  content  for  the  future.  I  do  not 
know  how  far  I  have  benefited  from  my  travels,  but  one  important 
conclusion  I  have  drawn  from  them." 

"  What  is  that  ?"  said  his  friend. 

"  Why,  you  know  it  is  the  current  opinion  with  us,  that  everything  in 
this  world  was  made  for  our  use.  Now,  I  have  seen  such  vast  tracts  not 
at  all  fit  for  our.  residence,  and  peopled  with  creatures  so  much  larger  and 
stronger  than  ourselves,  that  I  cannot  help  being  convinced  that  the 
Creator  had  in  view  their  accommodation  as  well  as  ours,  in  making  this 
world." 

"  I  confess  this  seems  probable  enough  ;  but  you  had  better  keep  your 
opinion  to  yourself." 

"  Why  so  ?" 

""'You  know  we  ants  are  a  vain  race,  and  make  high  pretensions  to 
wisdom  as  well  as  antiquity.  We  shall  be  affronted  with  any  attempts 
to  lessen  our  importance  in  our  own  eyes." 


66  FOURTH    EVENING. 

"  But  there  is  no  wisdom  in  being  deceived." 

"  Well— do  as  you  think  proper.    Meantime,  farewell,  and  thanks  for 
the  entertainment  you  have  given  me." 
"Farewell!" 

THE  COLONISTS. 

"Come,"  said  Mr.  Barlow  to  his  boys,  "I  have  a  new  play  for  you. 
I  will  be  the  founder  of  a  colony ;  and  you  shall  be  people  of  different 
trades  and  professions  coming  to  offer  yourselves  to  go  with  me.  What 
are  you,  A. .?" 

A — I  am  a  farmer,  s*r. 

Mr.  B. — Very  well !  Farming  is  the  chief  thing  we  have  to  depend 
upon,  so  we  cannot  have  too  much  of  it.  But  you  must  be  a  working 
farmer,  not  a  gentleman-farmer.  Labourers  will  be  scarce  among  us,  and 
every  man  must  put  his  own  hand  to  the  plough.  There  will  be  woods 
to  clear,  and  marshes  to  drain,  and  a  great  deal  of  stubborn  work  to  do. 

A. — I  shall  be  ready  to  do  my  part,  sir. 

Mr.  B. —  Well,  then,  I  shall  entertain  you  willingly,  and  as  many  more 
of  your  profession  as  you  can  bring.  You  shall  have  land  enough,  and 
utensils  ;  and  you  may  fall  to  work  as  soon  as  you  please.  Now  for  the 
next. 

B. — I  am  a  miller,  sir. 

Mr,  B. — A  very  useful  trade  !  The  corn  we  grow  must  be  ground,  or 
it  will  do  us  little  good.     But  what  will  you  do  for  a  mill,  my  friend? 

B. — I  suppose  we  must  make  one,  sir. 

Mr.  B. — True  5  but  then  you  must  bring  with  you  a  millwright  for  the 
purpose.  As  for  millstones,  we  will  take  them  out  with  us.  Who  is 
next? 

C— I  am  a  carpenter,  sir. 

Mr.  B. — The  most  necessary  man  that  could  offer !  We  shall  find 
you  work  enough,  never  fear.  There  will  be  houses  to  build,  fences  to 
make,  and  all  kinds  of  wooden  furniture  to  provide.  But  our  timber  is 
all  growing.  You  will  have  a  great  deal  of  hard  work  to  do  in  felling 
trees,  and  sawing  planks,  and  shaping  posts  and  the  like.  You  must  be 
a  field-carpenter  as  well  as  a  house-carpenter. 

C — I  will,  sir. 

Mr.  B.—  Very  well!  then  I  engage  you,  hut  you  had  better  bring  two 
or  three  able  hands  along  with  you. 


THE    COLONISTS.  57 

/>.— I  am  a  blacksmith,  sir. 

Mr.  B. — An  excellent  companion  for  the  carpenter !  We  cannot  do 
without  either  of  you ;  so  you  may  bring  your  great  bellows  and  anvil, 
and  we  will  set  up  a  forge  for  you  as  soon  as  we  arrive.  But,  by-the-by, 
we  shall  want  a  mason  for  that  purpose. 

E. — I  am  one,  sir. 

Mr.  B. — That 's  well.  Though  we  may  live  in  loghouses  at  first,  we 
shall  want  brick  or  stone  work  for  chimneys,  and  hearths,  and  ovens ;  so 
there  will  be  employment  for  a  mason.  But  if  you  can  make  bricks  and 
burn  lime,  too,  you  will  be  still  more  useful. 

E. — I  will  try  what  I  can  do,  sir. 

Mr.  B. — No  man  can  do  more.     I  engage  you.     Who  is  next  ? 

F. — I  am  a  shoemaker,  sir. 

Mr.  B. — And  shoes  we  cannot  well  do  without.  But  can  you  make  them, 
like  Eumseus  in  the  Odyssey,  out  of  a  raw  hide  ?  for  I  fear  we  shall  get 
no  leather. 

F. — But  I  can  dress  hides,  too. 

Mr.  B. — Can  you? — then  you  are  a  clever  fellow,  and  I  will  have 
you,  though  I  give  you  double  wages. 

G. — I  am  a  tailor,  sir. 

Mr.  B. — Well — though  it  will  be  some  time  before  we  want  holyday- 
suits,  yet  we  must  not  go  naked ;  so  there  will  be  work  for  the  tailor 
But  you  are  not  above  mending  and  botching,  I  hope,  for  we  must  no( 
mind  patched  clothes  while  we  work  in  the  woods. 

G. — I  am  not,  sir. 

Mr.  B. — Then  I  engage  you,  too. 

H. — I  am  a  weaver,  sir. 

Mr.  B. — Weaving  is  a  very  useful  art,  but  I  question  if  we  can  find 
room  for  it  in  our  colony  for  the  present.  We  shall  not  grow  either  hemp 
or  flax  for  some  time  to  come,  and  it  will  be  cheaper  for  us  to  import  our 
cloth  than  to  make  it.  In  a  few  years,  however,  we  may  be  very  glad  of 
you. 

J. — I  am  a  silversmith  and  jeweller,  sir. 

Mr.  B. — Then,  my  friend,  you  cannot  go  to  a  worse  place  than  a 
new  colony  to  set  up  your  trade  in  You  will  break  us,  or  we  shall 
starve  you. 

/. — But  I  understand  clock  and  watch  making,  too. 

Mr.  B. — That  is  somewhat  more  to  our  purpose,  for  we  shall  want  to 

3* 


58  FOURTH    EVENING. 

know  how  time  goes.  But  I  doubt  we  cannot  give  you  sufficient 
encouragement  for  a  long  time  to  come.  For  the  present  you  had  better 
stay  where  you  are. 

if. — I  am  a  barber  and  hairdresser,  sir. 

Mr.  B. — Alas !  what  can  we  do  with  you  ?  If  you  will  shave  our 
men's  rough  beards  once  a  week,  and  crop  their  hair  once  a  quarter,  and 
be  content  to  help  the  carpenter,  or  follow  the  plough  the  rest  of  you) 
time,  we  shall  reward  you  accordingly.  But  you  will  have  no  ladies  and 
gentlemen  to  dress  for  a  ball,  or  wigs  to  curl  and  powder  for  Sundays,  ] 
assure  you.  Your  trade  will  not  stand  by  itself  with  us  for  a  great  timt 
to  come. 

L. — I  am  a  medical  man,  sir. 

Mr.  B. — Then,  sir,  you  are  very  welcome.  Health  is  the  first  ol 
blessings,  and  if  you  can  give  us  that,  you  will  be  a  valuable  man  indeed. 
But  I  hope  you  understand  surgery  as  well  as  physic,  for  we  are  likely 
enough  to  get  cuts  and  bruises,  and  broken  bones  occasionally. 

L. — I  have  had  experience  in  that  branch  too,  sir. 

Mr.  B. — And  if  you  understand  the  nature  of  plants,  and  their  uses 
both  in  medicine  and  diet,  it  will  be  a  great  addition  to  your  usefulness. 

L. — Botany  has  been  a  favourite  study  with  me,  sir ;  and  I  have  some 
knowledge  of  chymistry,  and  the  other  parts  of  natural  history,  too. 

Mr.  B. — Then  you  will  be  a  treasure  to  us,  sir,  and  I  shall  be  happy 
to  make  it  worth  your  while  to  go  with  us. 

M. — I,  sir,  am  a  lawyer. 

Mr.  B. — Sir,  your  most  obedient  servant.  When  we  are  rich  enough 
to  go  to  law,  we  will  let  you  know. 

N. — I  am  a  schoolmaster,  sir. 

Mr.  B. — That  is  a  profession  which  I  am  sure  I  do  not  mean  to  under- 
value ;  and  as  soon  as  ever  we  have  young  folks  in  our  colony,  we  shall 
be  glad  of  your  services.  Though  we  are  to  be  hard-working,  plain 
people,  we  do  not  intend  to  be  ignorant,  and  we  shall  make  it  a  point  to 
have  every  one  taught  reading  and  writing,  at  least.  In  the  meantime, 
till  we  have  employment  enough  for  you  in  teaching,  you  may  keep  the 
accounts  and  records  of  the  colony  :  and  on  Sunday  you  may  read  prayers 
to  all  those  that  choose  to  attend  upon  you. 

N. — With  all  my  heart,  sir. 

Mr.  B. — Then  I  engage  you.     Who  comes  here  with  so  bold  an  air? 

O.— I  am  a  soldier,  sir ;  will  you  have  me  ? 


THE    COLONISTS.  59 

Mr.  B.  We  are  peaceable  people,  and  I  hope  shall  have  no  occasion 
to  fight.  We  mean  honestly  to  purchase  our  land  from  the  natives,  and 
to  be  just  and  fair  in  all  our  dealings  with  them.  William  Penn,  the 
founder  of  Pennsylvania  followed  that  plan  ;  and  when  the  Indians  were 
at  war  with  all  the  other  European  settlers,  a  person  in  a  quaker's  habit 
might  pass  through  all  their  most  ferocious  tribes  without  the  least  injury. 
It  is  my  intention,  however,  to  make  all  my  colonists  soldiers,  so  far  as 
to  be  able  to  defend  themselves  if  attacked,  and  that  being  the  case,  we 
shall  have  no  need  of  soldiers  by  trade. 

P.  I  am  a  gentleman,  sir ;  and  I  have  a  great  desire  to  accompany 
you,  because  I  hear  game  is  very  plentiful  in  that  country. 

Mr.  B.     A  gentleman !     And  what  good  will  you  do  us,  sir  ? 

P.  O,  sir,  that  is  not  at  all  my  intention.  1  only  mean  to  amuse 
myself. 

Mr.  B.    But  do  you  mean,  sir,  that  we  should  pay  for  your  amusement  ? 

P.  As  to  maintenance,  I  expect  to  be  able  to  kill  game  enough  for 
my  own  eating,  with  a  little  bread  and  garden-stuff,  which  you  will  give 
me.  Then  I  will  be  content  with  a  house  somewhat  better  than  the 
common  ones ;  and  your  barber  shall  be  my  valet  \  so  I  shall  give  very 
little  trouble. 

Mr.  B.  And  pray,  sir,  what  inducement  can  we  have  for  doing  all 
this  for  you  ? 

P.  Why,  sir,  you  will  have  the  credit  of  having  one  gentleman  at 
least  in  your  colony. 

Mr.  B.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  A  facetious  gentleman,  truly  !  Well,  sir,  when 
we  are  ambitious  of  such  a  distinction,  we  will  send  for  you. 


EVENING  V. 


THE  DOG  AND  HIS  RELATIONS. 

Keeper  was  a  farmer's  mastiff,  honest,  brave,  and  vigilant.  One  day, 
as  he  was  ranging  at  some  distance  from  home,  he  espied  a  wolf  and  a 
fox  sitting  together  at  the  corner  of  a  wood.  Keeper,  not  much  liking 
their  looks,  though  by  no  means  fearing  them,  was  turning  another  way, 
when  they  called  after  him,  and  civilly  desired  him  to  stay,  "  Surely, 
sir,"  says  Reynard,  "you  wo' n't  disown  your  relations.  My  cousin 
Gaunt  and  I  were  just  talking  over  family-matters,  and  we  both  agreed 
that  we  had  the  honour  of  reckoning  you  among  our  kin.    You  must 

60 


THE    DOG    AND    HIS    RELATIONS.  61 

know  that,  according  to  the  best  accounts,  the  wolves  and  dogs  were 
originally  one  race  in  the  forests  of  Armenia;  but  the  dogs,  taking  to 
living  with  man,  have  since  become  inhabitants  of  towns  and  villages, 
while  the  wolves  have  retained  their  ancient  mode  of  life.  As  to  my 
ancestors,  the  foxes,  they  were  a  branch  of  the  same  family,  who  settled 
farther  northward,  where  they  became  stinted  in  their  growth,  and 
adopted  the  custom  of  living  in  holes  under  ground.  The  cold  has 
sharpened  our  noses,  and  given  us  a  thicker  fur  and  bushy  tails  to  keep 
us  warm.  But  we  have  all  a  family  likeness  which  it  is  impossible  to 
mistake;  and  I  am  sure* it  is  our  interest  to  be  good  friends  with  each 
other." 

The  wolf  was  of  the  same  opinion ;  and  Keeper,  looking  narrowly  at 
them,  could  not  help  acknowledging  their  relationship.  As  he  had  a 
generous  heart,  he  readily  entered  into  friendship  with  them.  They  took 
a  ramble  together;  but  Keeper  was  rather  surprised  at  observing  the 
suspicious  shyness  with  which  some  of  the  weaker  sort  of  animals 
surveyed  them,  and  wondered  at  the  hasty  flight  of  a  flock  of  sheep  as 
soon  as  they  came  within  view.  However,  he  gave  his  cousins  a  cordial 
invitation  to  come  and  see  him  at  his  yard,  and  then  took  his  leave. 

They  did  not  fail  to  come  the  next  day  about  dusk.  Keeper  received 
them  kindly,  and  treated  them  with  part  of  his  own  supper.  They  stayed 
with  him  till  after  dark,  and  then  marched  off  with  many  compliments. 
The  next  morning  word  was  brought  to  the  farm  that  a  goose  and  three 
goslings  were  missing,  and  that  a  couple  of  lambs  were  found  almost 
devoured  in  the  home-field.  Keeper  was  too  honest  himself  readily  to 
suspect  others,  so  he  never  thought  of  his  kinsmen  on  the  occasion.  Soon 
after,  they  paid  him  a  second  evening  visit ;  and  next  day,  another  loss 
appeared,  of  a  hen  and  her  chickens,  and  a  fat  sheep.  Now  Keeper  could 
not  help  mistrusting  a  little,  and  blamed  himself  for  admitting  strangers 
without  his  master's  knowledge.  However,  he  still  did  not  love  to  think 
ill  of  his  own  relations. 

They  came  a  third  time.  Keeper  received  them  rather  coldly ;  and 
hinted  that  he  should  like  better  to  see  them  in  the  daytime;  but  they 
excused  themselves  for  want  of  leisure.  When  they  took  their  leave  he 
resolved  to  follow  at  some  distance  and  watch  their  motions.  A  litter 
of  young  pigs  happened  to  be  lying  under  a  haystack  without  the  yard. 
The  wolf  seized  one  by  the  back,  and  ran  off  with  him.  The  pig  set  up 
a  most  dismal  squeal ;  and  Keeper,  running  up  at  the  noise,  caught  his 


62  FIFTH    EVENING 

dear  cousin  m  the  fact.  He  flew  at  him  and  made  him  relinquish  his 
prey,  though  not  without  much  snarling  and  growling.  The  fox3  who 
had  been  prowling  about  the  henroost,  now  came  up,  and  began  to  make 
protestations  of  his  own  innocence,  with  heavy  reproaches  against  the 
wolf  for  thus  disgracing  the  family.  "  Begone,  scoundrels  both  I"  cried 
Keeper ;  "  I  know  you  now  too  well.  You  may  be  of  my  blood,  but  I 
am  sure  you  are  not  of  my  spirit.  Keeper  holds  no  kindred  with 
villains."     So  saying,  he  drove  them  from  the  premises. 

THE  HISTORY  AND  ADVENTURES  OP  A  CAT. 

Some  days  ago  died  Grimalkin,  the  favourite  tabby-cat  of  Mrs.  Petlove. 
Her  disorder  was  a  shortness  of  breath,  proceeding  partly  from  old  age, 
and  partly  from  fat.  As  she  felt  her  end  approaching,  she  called  her  children 
to  her,  and  with  a  great  deal  of  difficulty  spoke  as  follows  : — 

"  Before  I  depart  from  this  world,  my  children,  I  mean,  if  my  breath 
will  give  me  leave,  to  relate  to  you  the  principal  events  of  my  life,  as  the 
variety  of  scenes  I  have  gone  through  may  afford  you  some  useful 
instruction  for  avoiding  those  dangers  to  which  our  species  are  particularly 
exposed. 

"Without  further  preface,  then,  I  was  born  at  a  farmhouse,  in  a 
village  some  miles  hence  ;  and  almost  as  soon  as  I  Came  into  the  world, 
I  was  very  near  leaving  it  again.  My  mother  brought  five  of  us  at 
a  litter ;  and  as  the  frugal  people  of  the  house  only  kept  cats  to  be  useful, 
and  were  already  sufficiently  stocked,  we  were  immediately  doomed  to  be 
drowned ;  and  accordingly,  a  boy  was  ordered  to  take  us  all  and  throw  us 
into  the  horsepond.  This  commission  he  performed  with  the  pleasure 
boys  seem  naturally  to  take  in  acts  of  cruelty,  and  we  were  presently  set 
a  swimming.  While  we  were  struggling  for  life,  a  little  girl,  daughter  to 
the  farmer,  came  running  to  the  pond-side,  and  begged  very  hard  that  she 
might  save  one  of  us,  and  bring  him  up  for  her  own.  After  some  dispute 
her  request  was  granted ;  and  the  boy,  reaching  out  his  arm,  took  hold  of 
me,  who  was  luckily  nearest  him,  and  brought  me  out  when  I  was  just 
spent.  I  was  laid  on  the  grass,  and  it  was  some  time  before  I  recovered. 
The  girl  then  restored  me  to  my  mother,  who  was  overjoyed  to  get  again 
one  of  her  little  ones  ;  and  for  fear  of  another  mischance,  she  took  me  m 
her  mouth  to  a  dark  hole,  where  she  kept  me  till  I  could  see,  and  was  able 
to  run  by  her  side.     As  soon  as  I  came  to  light  again,  my  little  mistress 


THE    HISTORY    AND    ADVENTURES    OF    A    CAT.  63 

took  possession  of  me,  and  tended  me  very  carefully.  Her  fondness, 
indeed,  was  sometimes  troublesome,  as  she  pinched  ray  sides  with  carry- 
ing me,  and  once  or  twice  hurt  me  a  good  deal  by  letting  me  fall.  Soon, 
however,  I  became  strong  and  active,  and  played  and  gambolled  all  day 
long,  to  the  great  delight  of  my  mistress  and  her  companions. 

w  At  this  time  I  had  another  narrow  escape.  A  man  brought  into  the 
house  a  strange  dog,  who  had  been  taught  to  worry  all  the  cats  that  came 
in  his  way.  My  mother  slunk  away  at  his  entrance ;  but  I,  thinking,  like 
a  little  fool  as  I  was,  that  I  was  able  to  protect  myself,  stayed  on  the  floor, 
growling,  and  setting  up  my  back  by  way  of  defiance.  The  dog  instantly 
ran  at  me,  and  before  I  could  get  my  claws  ready,  seized  me  with  his 
mouth,  and  began  to  gripe  and  shake  me  most  terribly.  I  screamed  out, 
and,  by  good  luck,  my  mistress  was  within  hearing.  She  ran  to  us,  but 
was  not  able  to  disengage  me ;  however,  a  servant,  seeing  her  distress 
took  a  great  stick,  and  gave  the  dog  such  a  bang  on  the  back,  that  he  was 
forced  to  let  me  go.  He  had  used  me  so  roughly,  that  I  was  not  able 
to  stand  for  some  time ;  but  by  care  and  a  good  constitution  I  recovered. 

"  I  was  now  running  after  everybody's  heels,  by  which  means  1  got 
one  day  locked  up  in  the  dairy.  I  was  not  sorry  for  this  accident,  thinking 
to  feast  upon  the  cream  and  other  good  things.  But  having  climbed 
a  shelf  to  get  at  a  bowl  of  cream,  I  unluckily  fell  backward  into  a  large 
vessel  of  buttermilk,  where  I  should  probably  have  been  drowned,  had 
not  the  maid  heard  the  noise,  and  come  to  see  what  was  the  matter.  She 
took  me  out,  scolding  bitterly  at  me,  and  after  making  me  undergo  a 
severe  discipline  at  the  pump  to  clean  me,  she  dismissed  me  with  a  good 
whipping.     I  took  care  not  to  follow  her  into  the  dairy  again. 

"  After  a  while  I  began  to  get  into  the  yard,  and  my  mother  took  me  into 
the  barn  on  a  mousing  expedition.  I  shall  never  forget  the  pleasure  this 
gave  me.  We  sat  by  a  hole,  and  presently  out  came  a  mouse  with  a  brood 
of  young  ones.  My  mother  darted  among  them,  and  first  demolished  the  old 
one,  and  then  pursued  the  little  ones,  who  ran  about  squeaking  in  dreadful 
perplexity.  I  now  thought  it  was  time  for  me  to  do  something,  and  accord- 
ingly ran  after  a  straggler,  and  soon  overtook  it.  O,  how  proud  was  I,  as  I 
stood  over  my  trembling  captive,  and  patted  him  with  my  paws  !  My 
pride,  however,  soon  met  with  a  check ;  for  seeing  one  day  a  large  rat 
I  courageously  flew  at  him;  but  instead  of  running  from  me,  he  gave  me 
such  a  bite  on  the  nose,  that  I  ran  away  to  my  mother  mewing  piteously, 
with  my  face  all  bloody  and  swelled.     For  some  time  I  did  not  meddle 


64  FIFTH    EVENING. 

with  rats  again ;  but  at  length,  growing  stronger  and  more  skilful,  I  feared 
neither  rats  nor  any  other  vermin,  and  acquired  the  reputation  of  an 
excellent  hunter. 

"  I  had  some  other  escapes  about  this  time.  Once  I  happened  to  meet 
with  some  poisoned  food  laid  for  the  rats,  and  eating  it,  I  was  thrown 
into  a  disorder  that  was  very  near  killing  me.  At  another  time,  I  chanced 
to  set  my  foot  in  a  rat-trap,  and  received  so  many  deep  wounds  from  its 
teeth,  that  though  I  was  loosened  as  gently  as  possible  by  the  people  who 
heard  me  cry,  I  was  rendered  lame  for  some  weeks  after. 

"  Time  went  on,  and  I  arrived  at  my  full  growth ;  and  forming  an 
acquaintance  with  a  male-cat  about  my  age,  after  a  decent  resistance  by 
scolding,  biting,  and  scratching,  we  made  a  match  of  it.  I  became  a 
mother  in  due  time,  and  had  the  mortification  of  seeing  several  broods  of 
my  kittens  disposed  of  in  the  same  manner  as  my  brothers  and  sisters 
had  been.  I  shall  mention  two  or  three  more  adventures  in  the  order  I 
remember  them.  I  was  once  prowling  for  birds  along  a  hedge  at  some 
distance  from  home,  when  the  'squire's  gray  hounds  came  that  way  a 
coursing.  As  soon  as  they  spied  me,  they  set  off  full  speed,  and  running 
much  faster  than  I  could  do,  were  just  behind  me,  when  I  reached  a  tree, 
and  saved  myself  by  climbing  it.  But  a  greater  danger  befell  me  on 
meeting  with  a  parcel  of  boys  returning  from  school.  They  surrounded 
me  before  I  was  aware,  and  obliged  me  to  take  refuge  in  a  tree ;  but  I  soon 
found  that  a  poor  defence  against  such  enemies ;  for  they  assembled  about 
it,  and  threw  stones  on  all  sides,  so  that  I  could  not  avoid  receiving  many 
hard  blows,  one  of  which  brought  me  senseless  to  the  ground.  The 
biggest  boy  now  seized  me,  and  proposed  to  the  rest  making  what  he 
called  rare  sport  with  me.  This  sport  was  to  tie  me  to  a  board,  and 
launching  me  on  a  pond,  to  set  some  water-dogs  at  me,  who  were  to  duck 
and  half  drown  me,  while  I  was  to  defend  myself  by  biting  their  noses, 
and  scratching  their  eyes.  Already  was  I  bound,  and  just  ready  to  be  set 
a  sailing  when  the  schoolmaster  taking  a  walk  that  way,  and  seeing  the 
bustle,  came  up,  and  obliged  the  boys  to  set  me  at  liberty,  severely 
reprimanding  them  for  their  cruel  intentions. 

"  The  next  remarkable  incident  of  my  life  was  the  occasion  of  my 
removal  from  the  country.  My  mistress's  brother  had  a  tame  linnet, 
of  which  he  was  very  fond  ;  for  it  would  come  and  light  on  his  shoulder 
when  he  called  for  it,  and  feed  out  of  his  hand ;  and  it  sung  well  besides. 
This  bird  was  usually   either  in  its  cage  or  upon  a  high  perch;  but 


HISTORY    AND    ADVENTURES    OF   A   CAT.  65 

one  unlucky  day,  when  he  and  I  were  alone  in  the  room  together,  he 
came  down  on  the  table  to  pick  up  crumbs.  I  spied  him,  and  not  being 
able  to  resist  the  temptation,  sprung  at  him,  and  catching  him  in  my 
claws,  soon  began  to  devour  him.  I  had  almost  finished  when  his 
master  came  into  the  room  ;  and  seeing  me  with  the  remains  of  pooi 
linnet  in  my  mouth,  he  ran  to  me  in  the  greatest  fury,  and  after  chasing 
me  several  times  round  the  room,  at  length  caught  me.  He  was  proceeding 
instantly  to  hang  me,  when  his  sister,  by  many  entreaties  and  tears, 
persuaded  him,  after  a  good  whipping,  to  forgive  me,  upon  the  promise 
that  I  should  be  sent  away.  Accordingly,  the  next  market-day  I  was 
despatched  in  the  cart  to  a  relation  of  theirs  in  this  town,  who  wanted 
a  good  cat,  as  the  house  was  overrun  with  mice. 

"  In  the  service  of  this  family  I  continued  a  good  while,  performing  my 
duty  as  a  mouser  extremely  well,  so  that  I  was  in  high  esteem.  I  soon 
became  acquainted  with  all  the  particulars  of  a  town  life,  and  distinguished 
my  activity  in  climbing  walls  and  houses,  and  jumping  from  roof  to 
roof,  either  in  pursuit  of  prey,  or  upon  gossiping  parties  with  my  com- 
panions. Once,  however,  I  had  like  to  have  suffered  for  my  venturing ; 
for  having  made  a  great  jump  from  one  house  to  another,  I  lit  upon  a 
loose  tile,  which  giving  way  with  me,  I  fell  from  a  vast  height  into  the 
street,  and  should  certainly  have  been  killed,  had  I  not  had  the  luck  to 
light  in  a  dung-cart,  whence  I  escaped  with  no  other  injury  but  being 
half  stifled  with  filth. 

"Notwithstanding  the  danger  I  had  run  from  killing  the  linnet,  I  am 
sorry  to  confess  that  I  was  again  guilty  of  a  similar  offence.  I  contrived 
one  night  to  leap  down  from  a  roof  upon  the  board  of  some  pigeon-holes, 
which  led  to  a  garret  inhabited  by  those  birds.  I  entered,  and  finding 
them  asleep,  made  sad  havoc  among  all  that  were  within  my  reach, 
killing  and  sucking  the  blood  of  near  a  dozen.  I  was  near  paying  dearly 
for  this,  too  ;  for  on  attempting  to  return,  I  found  it  was  impossible  for  me 
to  leap  up  again  to  the  place  whence  I  had  descended,  so  that,  after  severaj 
dangerous  trials,  I  was  obliged  to  wait  trembling  in  the  place  where  I 
had  committed  all  these  murders,  till  the  owner  came  up  in  the  morning 
to  feed  his  pigeons.  I  rushed  out  between  his  legs  as  soon  as  the  door 
was  opened,  and  had  the  good  fortune  to  get  safe  down  stairs,  and  make 
my  escape  through  a  window  unknown;  but  never  shall  I  forget  tne 
horrors  I  felt  that  night !  Let  my  double  danger  be  a  warning  to  you, 
my  children,  to  control  your  savage  appetites,  and  on  no  account  to  do 


66  FIFTH    EVENING. 

harm  to  those  creatures  which,  like  ourselves,  are  under  the  protection  of 
man.  We  cats  all  lie  under  a  bad  name  for  treacherous  dispositions  in 
this  respect,  and  with  shame  I  must  acknowledge  it  is  but  too  well 
merited. 

"  Well — but  my  breath  begins  to  fail  me,  and  I  must  hasten  to  a  con- 
clusion. I  still  lived  in  the  same  family,  when  our  present  kind  mistress, 
Mrs.  Petlove,  having  lost  a  favourite  tabby,  advertised  a  very  handsome 
price  for  another,  that  should  as  nearly  as  possible  resemble  her  dead 
darling.  My  owners,  tempted  by  the  offer,  took  me  for  the  good  lady's 
inspection,  and  I  had  the  honour  of  being  preferred  to  a  multitude  of  rivals. 
I  was  immediately  settled  in  the  comfortable  mansion  we  now  inhabit, 
and  had  many  favours  and  indulgences  bestowed  upon  me,  such  as  I 
had  never  before  experienced.  Among  these  I  reckon  one  of  the  principal 
that  of  being  allowed  to  rear  all  my  children,  and  to  see  them  grow  up 
in  peace  and  plenty.  My  adventures  here  have  been  few ;  for  after  the 
monkey  had  spitefully  bit  off  the  last  joint  of  my  tail,  (for  which  I  had  the 
satisfaction  to  see  him  soundly  corrected,)  I  kept  beyond  the  length  of 
his  chain ;  and  neither  the  parrot  nor  lapdogs  ever  dared  to  molest  me. 
One  of  the  greatest  afflictions  I  have  felt  here  was  the  stifling  of  a  whole 
litter  of  my  kittens  by  a  fat  old  lady,  a  friend  of  my  mistress,  who  sat 
down  on  the  chair  where  they  lay,  and  never  perceived  the  mischief  she 
was  doing  till  she  rose,  though  I  pulled  her  clothes  and  used  all  the 
means  in  my  power  to  show  my  uneasiness.  This  misfortune  my  mistress 
took  to  heart  almost  as  much  as  myself,  and  the  lady  has  never  since 
entered  our  doors.  Indeed,  both  I  and  mine  had  ever  been  treated  here 
with  the  utmost  kindness — perhaps  with  too  much  ;  for,  to  the  pampering 
me  with  delicacies,  together  with  Mrs.  Abigail's  frequent  washings,  I 
attribute  this  asthma,  which  is  now  putting  an  end  to  my  life  rather 
sooner  than  its  natural  period.  But  I  know  all  was  meant  well;  and 
with  my  last  breath  I  charge  you  all  to  show  your  gratitude  to  our 
worthy  mistress,  by  every  return  in  your  power. 

"  And  now,  my  dear  children,  farewell ;  we  shall  perhaps  meet  again 
in  a  land  where  there  are  no  dogs  to  worry  us,  or  boys  to  torment  us — 
Adieu !» 

Having  thus  said,  Grimalkin  became  speechless,  and  presently  departed 
this  life,  to  the  great  grief  of  all  the  family. 


CANUTES    REPROOF    TO    HIS    COURTIERS.  67 


CANUTE'S  REPROOF  TO  HIS  COURTIERS. 

PERSONS. 

Canute King  of  England. 

Oswald,  Offa Courtiers. 

Scene —  The  seaside,  near  Southampton. 
The  tide  coming  in. 

Canute.  Is  it  true,  my  friends,  what  you  have  so  often  told  me,  that 
I  am  the  greatest  of  monarchs? 

Offa.    It  is  true,  my  liege  ;  you  are  the  most  powerful  of  all  kings. 

Osxcald.    We  are  all  your  slaves ;  we  kiss  the  dust  of  your  feet. 

Offa.  Not  only  we,  but  even  the  elements,  are  your  slaves.  The 
land  obeys  you  from  shore  to  shore  ;  and  the  sea  obeys  you. 

Canute.  Does  the  sea,  with  its  loud  boisterous  waves,  obey  me  ? 
Will  that  terrible  element  be  still  at  my  bidding? 

Offa.  Yes,  the  sea  is  yours  ;  it  was  made  to  bear  your  ships  upon  its 
bosom,  and  to  pour  the  treasures  of  the  world  at  your  royal  feet.  It  is 
boisterous  to  your  enemies,  but  it  knows  you  to  be  its  sovereign. 

Canute.    Is  not  the  tide  coming  up  ? 

Oswald.    Yes,  my  liege ;  you  may  perceive  the  swell  already. 

Canute.    Bring  me  a  chair,  then ;  set  it  here  upon  the  sands. 

Offa.    Where  the  tide  is  coming  up,  my  gracious  lord  ? 

Canute.    Yes,  set  it  just  here. 

Oswald  (aside).    I  wonder  what  he  is  going  to  do  ! 

Offa  (aside).     Surely,  he  is  not  such  a  fool  as  to  believe  us  ! 

Canute.  O,  mighty  ocean  !  thou  art  my  subject :  my  courtiers  tell  me 
so ;  and  it  is  thy  bounden  duty  to  obey  me.  Thus,  then,  I  stretch  my 
sceptre  over  thee,  and  command  thee  to  retire.  Roll  back  thy  swelling 
waves,  nor  let  them  presume  to  wet  the  feet  of  me,  thy  royal  master. 

Oswald  (aside).  I  believe  the  sea  will  pay  very  little  regard  to  his 
royal  commands. 

Offa.     See  how  fast  the  tide  rises  ! 

Oswald.  The  next  wave  will  come  uu  to  the  chair.  It  is  folly  to 
stay  ;  we  shall  be  covered  with  salt  water. 

Canute.  Well,  does  the  sea  obey  my  commands  ?  If  it  be  my  subject, 
it  is  a  very  rebellious  subject.  See  how  it  swells  and  dashes  the  angry 
foam  and  salt  spray  over  my  sacred  person.    Vile  sycophants !   did  you 


* 


68  FIFTH    EVENING. 

think  I  was  the  dupe  of  your  base  lies  ?  that  I  believed  your  abject 
flatteries  ?  Know,  there  is  only  one  Being  whom  the  sea  will  obey.  He 
is  sovereign  of  heaven  and  earth.  King  of  kings,  and  Lord  of  lords.  It  is 
only  he  who  can  say  to  the  ocean — "  Thus  far  shalt  thou  go,  but  no 
farther,  and  here  shall  thy  proud  waves  be  stayed."  A  king  is  but  a 
man ;  and  a  man  is  but  a  worm.  Shall  a  worm  assume  the  power  of  the 
great  God,  and  think  the  elements  will  obey  him?  Take  away  this 
crown,  I  will  never  wear  it  more.  May  kings  learn  to  be  humble  from 
my  example,  and  courtiers  learn  truth  from  your  disgrace. 


DIALOGUE,  ON  THINGS  TO  BE  LEARNED, 

BETWEEN  MAMMA  AND   KITTY. 

Kitty.     Pray,  mamma,  may  I  leave  off  working?     I  am  tired. 

Mamma.  You  have  done  very  little,  my  dear  j  you  know  you  were 
to  finish  all  that  hem. 

K.  But  I  had  rather  write  now,  mamma,  or  read,  or  get  my  French 
grammar. 

M.  I  know  very  well  what  that  means,  Kitty ;  you  had  rather  do 
anything  than  what  I  set  you  about. 

K.  No,  mamma  ;  but  you  know  I  can  work  very  well  already,  and  I 
have  a  great  many  more  things  to  learn.  There 's  Miss  Rich  that  cannot 
sew  half  so  well  as  I,  and  she  is  learning  music  and  drawing  already, 
besides  dancing,  and  I  don't  know  how  many  other  things.  She  tells 
me  that  they  hardly  work  at  all  in  their  school. 

M.  Your  tongue  runs  at  a  great  rate,  my  dear ;  but,  in  the  first  place, 
you  cannot  sew  very  well  for  if  you  could,  you  would  not  have  been  so 
long  in  doing  this  little  piece.  Then  I  hope  you  will  allow  that  mammas 
know  better  what  is  proper  for  their  little  girls  to  learn  than  they  do 
themselves? 

K.  To  be  sure,  mamma ;  but  as  I  suppose  I  must  learn  all  these 
things  some  time  or  other,  I  thought  you  would  like  to  have  me  begin 
them  soon,  for  I  have  often  heard  you  say  that  children  cannot  be  set  too 
early  about  what  is  necessary  for  them  to  do. 

M.  That 's  very  true ;  but  all  things  are  not  equally  necessary  to  every 
one ;  for  some  that  are  very  fit  for  one,  are  scarcely  proper  at  all  for 
others. 

K.    Why,  mamma  ? 


THINGS   TO    BE    LEARNED.  69 

M.  Because,  my  dear,  it  is  the  purpose  of  all  education  to  fit  persons 
for  the  station  in  which  they  are  hereafter  to  live ;  and  you  know  there 
are  very  great  differences  in  that  respect,  hoth  among  men  and  women. 

K.    Are  there?    I  thought  all  ladies  lived  alike. 

M.  It  is  usual  to  call  all  well-educated  women,  who  have  no  occasion 
to  work  for  their  livelihood,  ladies  ;  hut,  if  you  will  think  a  little,  you 
must  see  that  they  live  very  differently  from  each  other,  for  their  fathers 
and  husbands  are  in  very  different  ranks  and  situations  in  the  world,  you 
know. 

K.  Yes,  I  know  that  some  are  lords,  and  some  are  'squires,  and  some 
are  clergymen,  and  some  are  merchants,  and  some  are  doctors,  and  some 
are  shopkeepers. 

M.  Well ;  and  do  you  think  the  wives  and  daughters  of  these  persons 
can  have  just  the  same  things  to  do,  and  the  same  duties  to  perform  ? 
You  know  how  I  spend  my  time.  I  have  to  go  to  market  and  provide 
for  the  family,  to  look  after  the  servants,  to  help  in  taking  care  of  you 
children,  and  in  teaching  you  to  see  that  your  clothes  are  m  proper 
condition,  and  assist  in  making  and  mending  for  myself,  and  you,  and 
your  papa.  All  this  is  my  necessary  duty ;  and  besides  this,  I  must  go 
out  a  visiting  to  keep  up  our  acquaintance ;  this  I  call  partly  business, 
and  partly  amusement.  Then  when  I  am  tired,  and  have  done  all  that  I 
think  necessary,  I  may  amuse  myself  with  reading,  or  in  any  other 
proper  way.  Now  a  great  many  of  these  employments  do  not  belong  to 
Lady  Wealthy,  or  Mrs.  Rich,  who  keep  housekeepers  and  governesses, 
and  servants  of  all  kinds,  to  do  everything  for  them.  It  is  very  proper, 
therefore,  for  them  to  pay  more  attention  to  music,  drawing,  ornamental 
work,  and  any  other  elegant  manner  of  passing  their  time  and  making 
themselves  agreeable. 

K.    And  shall  I  have  all  the  same  things  to  do,  mamma,  that  you  have  ? 

M.  It  is  impossible,  my  dear,  to  foresee  what  your  future  station  will 
be  ;  but  you  have  no  reason  to  expect  that  if  you  have  a  family  you  will 
have  fewer  duties  to  perform  than  I  have.  This  is  the  way  of  life  for 
which  your  education  should  prepare  you  ;  and  everything  will  be  useful 
and  important  for  you  to  learn,  in  proportion  as  it  will  make  you  fit  for  this. 

K.  But  when  I  am  grown  a  young  lady,  shall  I  not  have  to  visit,  and 
go  to  assemblies  and  plays,  as  Miss  Wilsons  and  Miss  Johnsons  do  7 

M.  It  is  very  likely  you  may  enter  into  some  amusement  of  this  sort : 
but  even  then  you  will  have  several  more  serious  employments,  which 


70  FIFTH    EVENING. 

will  take  up  a  much  greater  part  of  your  time ;  and  if  you  do  not  do  them 
properly,  you  will  have  no  right  to  partake  of  the  others. 
K.     What  will  they  be,  mamma  ? 

M.  Why,  don't  you  think  it  proper  that  you  should  assist  me  in  my 
household  affairs  a  little,  as  soon  as  you  are  able  ? 

K.     O  yes,  mamma,  I  should  be  very  glad  to  do  that. 

M.  Well,  consider  what  talents  will  be  necessary  for  that  purpose; 
will  not  a  good  hand  at  your  needle  be  one  of  the  very  first  qualities  1 

K.     I  believe  it  will. 

M.  Yes,  and  not  only  in  assisting  me,  but  in  making  things  for  your- 
self. You  know  how  we  admired  Miss  Smart's  ingenuity  when  she 
was  with  us,  in  contriving  and  making  so  many  articles  of  her  dress,  for 
which  she  must  otherwise  have  gone  to  the  milliner's,  which  would  have 
cost  a  great  deal  of  money. 

K.  Yes ;  she  made  my  pretty  bonnet,  and  she  made  you  a  very  hand- 
some cap. 

M.  Very  true  ;  she  was  so  clever  as  not  only  to  furnish  herself  with 
these  things,  but  to  oblige  her  friends  with  some  of  her  work.  And  I  dare 
say  she  does  a  great  deal  of  plain  work  also  for  herself  and  her  mother. 
Well,  then,  you  are  convinced  of  the  importance  of  this  business,  I  hope. 

K.    Yes,  mamma. 

M.  Reading  and  writing  are  such  necessary  parts  of  education,  that  I 
need  not  say  much  to  you  about  them. 

K,     O  no,  for  I  love  reading  dearly. 

M.  I  know  you  do,  if  you  can  get  entertaining  stories  to  read,  but 
there  are  many  things  also  to  be  read  for  instruction,  which  perhaps  may 
not  be  so  pleasant  at  first. 

K.    But  what, need  is  there  of  so  many  books  of  this  sort? 

M .  Some  are  to  teach  you  your  duty  to  your  Maker,  and  your  fellow- 
creatures,  of  which  I  hope  you  are  sensible  you  ought  not  to  be  ignorant. 
Then  it  is  very  right  to  be  acquainted  with  geography ;  for  you  remember 
how  poor  Miss  Blunder  was  laughed  at  for  saying  that  if  ever  she  went 
to  France,  it  should  be  by  land. 

K.  That  was  because  England  is  an  island,  and  all  surrounded  with 
water,  was  it  not  ? 

M.  Yes,  Great  Britain,  which  contains  both  England  and  Scotland, 
is  an  island.  Well,  it  is  very  useful  to  kn#w  something  of  the  nature  of 
plants,  and  animals,  and  minerals,  because  we  are  always  using  some  or 


THINGS    TO    BE    LEARNED.  71 

other  of  them.  Something,  too,  of  the  heavenly  bodies  is  very  proper  to 
be  known,  both  that  we  may  admire  the  power  and  wisdom  of  God  in 
creating  them,  and  that  we  may  not  make  foolish  mistakes,  when  their 
natures  and  properties  are  the  subject  of  conversation.  The  knowledge  of 
history,  too,  is  very  important,  especially  that  of  our  own  country  j  and  in 
short,  everything  that  makes  part  of  the  discourse  of  rational  and  well- 
educated  people,  ought  in  some  degree  to  be  studied  by  every  one  who  has 
proper  opportunities. 

K.  Yes,  I  like  some  of  those  things  very  well.  But  pray,  mamma, 
what  do  I  learn  French  for — am  I  ever  to  live  in  France  1 

M.  Probably  not,  my  dear;  but  there  are  a  great  many  books  written 
in  French  that  are  very  well  worth  reading ;  and  it  may  every  now  and 
then  happen  that  you  may  be  in  company  with  foreigners  who  cannot 
speak  English,  and  as  they  almost  all  talk  French,  you  may  be  able  to 
converse  with  them  in  that  language. 

K.  Yes,  I  remember  there  was  a  gentleman  here  that  came  from 
Germany,  I  think,  and  he  could  hardly  speak  a  word  of  English,  but  papa 
and  you  could  talk  to  him  in  French ;  and  I  wished  very  much  to  be  able 
to  understand  what  you  were  saying,  for  I  believe  part  of  it  was  about  me. 

M.  It  was.  Well,  then,  you  see  the  use  of  French.  But  I  cannot 
say  this  is  a  necessary  part  of  knowledge  to  young  women  in  general, 
only  it  is  well  worth  acquiring,  if  a  person  has  leisure  and  opportunity. 
I  will  tell  you,  however,  what  is  quite  necessary  for  one  in  your  station, 
and  that  is,  to  write  a  good  hand,  and  to  cast  accounts  well. 

K.  I  should  like  to  write  well,  because  then  I  should  send  letters  to 
my  friends  when  I  pleased,  and  it  would  not  be  such  a  scrawl  as  our 
maid  Betty  writes^  that  I  dare  say  her  friends  can  hardly  make  it  out. 

M.  She  had  not  the  advantage  of  learning  when  young,  for  you  know 
she  taught  herself  since  she  came  to  us,  which  was  a  very  sensible  thing 
of  her,  and  I  suppose  she  will  improve.  Well,  but  accounts  are  almost 
as  necessary  as  writing ;  for  how  could  I  cast  up  all  the  market-bills  and 
tradesman's  accounts,  and  keep  my  housebooks,  without  it  ? 

K.     And  what  is  the  use  of  that,  mamma? 

M.  It  is  of  use  to  prevent  our  being  overcharged  in  anything,  and  to 
know  exactly  how  much  we  spend,  and  whether  or  not  we  are  exceeding 
our  income,  and  in  what  articles  we  ought  to  be  more  saving.  Without 
keeping  accounts  the  richest  man  might  soon  come  to  be  ruined,  before 
he  knew  that  his  affairs  were  going  wrong. 


72  FIFTH    EVENING. 

K.  But  do  women  always  keep  accounts?  I  thought  that  was 
generally  the  business  of  the  men. 

M.  It  is  their  business  to  keep  the  accounts  belonging  to  their  trade, 
or  profession,  or  estate ;  but  it  is  the  business  of  their  wives  to  keep  all 
the  household  accounts  j  and  a  woman  almost  in  any  rank,  unless, 
perhaps,  some  of  the  highest  of  all,  is  to  blame  if  she  does  not  take  upon 
her  this  necessary  office.  I  remember  a  remarkable  instance  of  the 
benefit  which  a  young  lady  derived  from  an  attention  to  this  point.  An 
eminent  merchant  in  London  failed  for  a  great  sum  ? 

K.     What  does  that  mean,  mamma  ? 

M.  That  he  owed  a  great  deal  more  than  he  could  pay.  His  creditors, 
that  is,  those  to  whom  he  was  indebted,  on  examining  his  accounts,  found 
great  deficiencies  which  they  could  not  make  out ;  for  he  had  kept  his 
books  very  irregularly,  and  had  omitted  to  put  down  many  things  that  he 
had  bought  and  sold.  They  suspected,  therefore,  that  great  waste  had 
been  made  in  the  family  expenses ;  and  they  were  the  more  suspicious  of 
this,  as  a  daughter,  who  was  a  very  genteel  young  lady,  was  his  house- 
keeper, his  wife  being  dead.  She  was  told  of  this ;  upon  which,  when 
the  creditors  were  all  met,  she  sent  them  her  housebooks  for  their 
examination.  They  were  all  written  in  a  very  fair  hand,  and  every  single 
article  was  entered  with  the  greatest  regularity,  and  the  sums  were  all 
cast  up  with  perfect  exactness.  The  gentlemen  were  so  highly  pleased 
with  the  proof  of  the  young  lady's  ability,  that  they  all  agreed  to  make 
her  a  handsome  present  out  of  the  effects  ;  and  one  of  the  richest  of  them, 
who  was  in  want  of  a  clever  wife,  soon  after  paid  his  addresses  to  her, 
and  married  her. 

K.  That  was  very  lucky,  for  I  suppose  she  took  care  of  her  poor  father 
when  she  was  rich.  But  I  shall  have  nothing  of  that  sort  to  do  a  great 
while. 

M.  No  ;  but  young  women  should  keep  their  own  account  of  clothes 
and  pocket-money,  and  other  expenses,  as  I  intend  you  shall  do  when 
you  grow  up. 

IC    Am  I  not  to  learn  dancing,  and  music,  and  drawing,  too,  mamma? 

M.  Dancing  you  shall  certainly  learn  pretty  soon,  because  it  is  not 
only  an  agreeable  accomplishment  in  itself,  but  is  useful  in  forming  the 
body  to  ease  and  elegance  in  all  its  motions.  As  to  the  other  two,  they 
are  merely  ornamental  accomplishments,  which,  though  a  woman  of 
middling  station  may  be  admired  for  possessing,  yet  she  will  never  be 


THINGS    TO    BE    LEARNED.  73 

censured  for  being  without.  The  propriety  of  attempting  to  acquire  them 
must  depend  on  natural  genius  for  them,  and  upon  leisure  and  other 
accidental  circumstances.  For  some  they  are  too  expensive,  and  many 
are  unable  to  make  such  progress  in  them  as  will  repay  the  pains  of 
beginning.  It  is  soon  enough,  however,  for  us  to  think  about  these  things, 
and  at  any  rate  they  are  not  to  come  in  till  you  have  made  a  very  good 
proficiency  in  what  is  useful  and  necessary.  But  I  see  you  have  now 
finished  what  I  set  you  about,  so  you  shall  take  a  walk  with  me  into 
the  marketplace,  where  I  have  two  or  three  things  to  buy. 

K.     Shall  we  not  call  at  the  bookseller's,  to  inquire  for  those  new  books 
that  Miss  Reader  was  talking  about? 

M.    Perhaps  we  may.    Now  lay  up  your  work  neatly,  and  get  on  your 
hat  and  tippet. 

4 


Alfred  the  Great,  p.  so 

EVENING  VI. 


ON  THE  OAK.— A  Dialogue. 
Tutor —  George — Harry. 

Tutor. — Come,  my  boys,  let  us  sit  down  awhile  under  yon  shady  tree. 
I  don't  know  how  your  young  legs  feel,  but  mine  are  almost  tired. 

Geo. — I  am  not  tired,  but  I  am  very  hot. 

Har. — And  I  am  hot  and  very  dry,  too. 

Tut. — When  you  have  cooled  yourself,  you  may  drink  out  of  that  clear 
brook.  In  the  meantime,  we  will  read  a  little  out  of  a  book  I  have  in  my 
pocket.     [  They  go  and  sit  down  at  the  foot  of  the  tree."] 

74 


A 


ON    THE    OAK.  75 

Har.  What  an  amazing  large  tree !  How  wide  its  branches  spread  ! 
Pray  what  tree  is  it  1 

Geo.     I  can  tell  you  that.    It  is  an  oak.    Don't  you  see  the  acorns? 

Tut.  Yes,  it  is  an  oak — the  noblest  tree  this  country  produces ;  not 
only  grand  and  beautiful  to  the  sight,  but  of  the  greatest  importance  from 
its  uses. 

Har.    I  should  like  to  know  something  about  it  ? 

Tut.  Very  well ;  then  instead  of  reading  we  will  sit  and  talk  about 
oaks.  George,  who  knew  the  oak  by  its  acorns — should  you  have  known 
it  if  there  had  been  none  ? 

Geo.    I  don't  know;  I  believe  not. 

Tut.  Observe,  then,  in  the  first  place,  that  its  bark  is  very  rugged.  Then 
see  in  what  manner  it  grows:  its  great  arms  runout  almost  horizontally 
from  its  truuk,  giving  the  whole  tree  a  sort  of  round  form,  and  makiDg  it 
spread  far  on  every  side.  Its  branches  are  also  subject  to  be  crooked  or 
kneed.  By  these  marks  you  might  guess  at  an  oak  even  in  winter,  when 
quite  bare  of  leaves.  But  its  leaves  afford  a  surer  mark  of  distinction, 
since  they  differ  a  good  deal  from  those  of  other  English  trees,  being 
neither  whole  and  even  at  the  edges,  nor  yet  cut  like  the  teeth  of  a  saw, 
but  rather  deeply  scolloped,  and  formed  into  several  rounded  divisions. 
Their  colour  is  a  fine  deep  green.     Then  the  fruit — 

Har.    Fruit ! 

Tut.  Yes ;  all  kinds  of  plants  have  what  may  properly  be  called  fruit, 
though  we  are  apt  to  give  that  name  only  to  such  as  are  food  for  man. 
The  fruit  of  a  plant  is  the  seed,  with  what  contains  it.  This,  in  the  oal^ 
is  called  an  acorn,  which  is  a  kind  of  nut,  partly  enclosed  in  a  cup. 

Geo.  Acorn-cups  are  very  pretty  things.  I  have  made  boats  of  them, 
and  set  them  swimming  in  a  basin. 

Tut.  And  if  you  were  no  bigger  than  a  fairy,  you  might  use  them  for 
drinking  cups,  as  those  imaginary  little  beings  are  said  to  do. 

Pearly  drops  of  dew  we  drink, 
In  acorn-cups  filled  to  the  brink. 

r 

Har.     Are  acorns  good  to  eat  ? 

Geo.    No  ;  that  they  are  not.    I  have  tried,  and  did  not  like  them  at  all. 

Tut.  In  the  early  ages  of  man,  before  he  cultivated  the  earth,  but  lived 
upon  such  wild  products  as  Nature  afforded,  we  are  told  that  acorns  made 
a  considerable  part  of  his  food  ;  and  at  this  day  they  are  eaten  in  Spain 


76  SIXTH    EVENING 

and  Greece,  and  in  some  other  of  the  southern  countries  of  Europe.  But 
they  are  sweeter  and  better  flavoured  than  ours,  and  are  produced  by  a 
different  species  of  oak.  The  chief  use  which  we  make  of  those  which 
grow  in  this  country  is  to  feed  hogs.  In  those  parts  of  England  where 
oak-woods  are  common,  great  herds  of  swine  are  kept,  which  are  driven 
into  the  woods  in  autumn,  when  the  acorns  fall,  and  provide  for  them- 
selves plentifully  for  two  or  three  months.  This,  however,  is  a  small 
part  of  the  praise  of  the  oak.  You  will  be  surprised  when  I  tell  you  that 
to  this  tree  our  country  owes  its  chief  glory  and  security. 
Har.     Ay  !  how  can  that  be  ? 

Tut.  I  do  n't  know  whether  in  your  reading  you  have  ever  met  with 
the  story,  that  Athens,  a  famous  city  in  Greece,  consulting  the  oracle 
how  it  might  best  defend  itself  against  its  enemies,  was  advised  to  trust 
to  wooden  walls. 

Har.  Wooden  walls  ?  that 's  odd.  I  should  think  stone-walls  better; 
for  wooden  ones  might  be  set  on  fire. 

Tut.  True :  but  the  meaning  was,  that  as  Athens  was  a  place  of  great 
trade,  and  its  people  were  skilled  in  maritime  affairs,  they  ought  to  trust 
to  their  ships.  Well,  this  is  the  case  with  Great  Britain.  As  it  is  an 
island,  it  has  no  need  of  walls  and  fortifications,  while  it  possesses 
ships  to  keep  all  enemies  at  a  distance.  Now,  we  have  the  greatest  and 
finest  navy  in  the  world,  by  which  we  both  defend  ourselves,  and  attack 
other  nations,  when  they  insult  us  ;  and  this  is  all  built  of  oak. 
Geo.    Would  no  other  wood  do  to  build  ships  ? 

Tut.  None  nearly  so  well,  especially  for  men-of-war ;  for  it  is  the 
stoutest  and  strongest  wood  we  have  ;  and,  therefore,  best  fitted,  both  to 
keep  sound  under  water,  and  to  bear  the  blows  and  shocks  of  the  waves, 
and  the  terrible  strokes  of  cannon-balls.  It  is  a  peculiar  excellence  for 
this  last  purpose,  that  oak  is  not  so  liable  to  splinter  or  shiver  as  other 
woods,  so  that  a  ball  can  pass  through  it  without  making  a  large  hole. 
Did  you  never  hear  the  old  song, 

Hearts  of  oak  are  our  ships,  hearts  of  oak  are  our  men,  &c.  1 

Geo.    No. 

Tut.  It  was  made  at  a  time  when  England  was  more  successful  in 
war  than  had  ever  before  been  known,  and  our  success  was  properly 
attributed  chiefly  to  our  fleet,  the  great  support  of  which  is  the  British  oak 
so  I  hope  you  will  look  upon  oaks  with  due  respect. 


k 


ON   THE   OAK.  77 

Har.    Yes  ;  it  shall  always  be  my  favourite  tree. 

Tut.    Had  not  Pope  reason,  when  he  said,  in  his  Windsor  Forest, 

"  Let  India  boast  her  plants,  nor  envy  we 

The  weeping  amber,  or  the  balmy  tree, 

While  by  our  oaks  the  precious  loads  are  borne, 

And  realms  commanded  which  those  trees  adorn  1" 

i 

These  lines  refer  to  its  use  as  well  for  merchant- ships  as  for  men-of- 
war;  and,  in  fact,  all  our  ships  are  for  the  most  part  built  either  of  native 
or  foreign  oak. 

Geo.    Are  the  masts  of  ships  made  of  oak  7 

Tut.  No ;  it  would  be  too  heavy.  Besides,  it  would  not  be  easy  to 
find  trunks  of  oak  long  and  straight  enough  for  that  purpose.  They  are 
made  of  various  sorts  of  fir  or  pine,  which  grow  very  tall  and  taper. 

Geo.    Is  oak  wood  used  for  anything  besides  ship-building  ? 

Tut.  O  yes  ;  it  is  one  of  the  principal  woods  of  the  carpenter,  being 
employed  wherever  great  strength  and  durability  are  required.  It  is  used 
for  door  and  window  frames,  and  the  beams  that  are  laid  in  walls  to 
strengthen  them.  Floors  and  staircases  are  sometimes  made  with  it ;  and 
in  old  houses  in  the  country,  which  were  built  when  oak  was  more  plenti- 
ful than  at  present,  almost  all  the  timber  about  them  was  oak.  It  is  also 
occasionally  used  for  furniture,  as  tables,  chairs,  drawers,  and  bedsteads  ; 
though  mahogany  has  now  much  taken  its  place  for  the  better  sort  of 
goods,  and  the  lighter  and  softer  woods  for  the  cheaper ;  for  the  hardness 
of  oak  renders  it  difficult  and  expensive  to  work.  It  is  still,  however,  the 
chief  material  used  in  mill-work,  in  bridge  and  water  works,  for  wagon 
and  cart  bodies,  for  threshing-floors,  for  large  casks  and  tubs,  and  for  the 
last  piece  of  furniture  a  man  has  occasion  for.  What  is  that,  do  you 
think,  George  ? 

Geo.    I  don't  know. 

Har.    A  coffin. 

Tut.     So  it  is. 

Har.    But  why  should  that  be  made  of  such  strong  wood  ? 

Tut.  There  can  be  no  other  reason  than  that  weak  attachment  we  are 
apt  to  have  for  our  bodies  when  we  are  done  with  them,  which  has  made 
men  in  various  countries  desirous  of  keeping  them  as  long  as  possible 
from  decay.  But  I  have  not  yet  done  with  the  uses  of  the  oak.  Were 
either  of  you  ever  in  a  tanner's  yard  ? 


78  SIXTH    EVENING. 

Geo.  We  often  go  by  one  at  the  end  of  the  town  ;  but  we  dare  not  go 
in  for  fear  of  the  great  dog. 

Tut.    But  he  is  always  chained  in  the  daytime. 

Har.  Yes ;  but  he  barks  so  loud  and  looks  so  fierce,  that  we  were 
afraid  he  would  break  his  chain. 

Tut.  I  doubt  you  are  a  couple  of  cowards.  However,  I  suppose  you 
came  near  enough  to  observe  great  stacks  of  bark  in  the  yard. 

Geo.     O  yes  ;  there  are  several. 

Tut.     Those  are  oak-bark,  and  it  is  used  in  tanning  the  hides. 

Har.     What  does  it  do  to  them  ? 

Tut.  I'll  tell  you.  The  hide,  when  taken  from  the  animal,  after 
being  steeped  in  lime  and  water  to  get  off  the  hair  and  grease,  is  put  to 
soak  in  a  liquor  made  by  steeping  oak-bark  in  water.  This  liquor  is 
strongly  astringent,  or  binding,  and  has  the  property  of  converting  skin 
into  leather.  The  change  which  the  hide  thus  undergoes  renders  it  at 
the  same  time  less  liable  to  decay,  and  soft  and  pliable  when  dry ;  for 
raw  skins,  by  drying,  acquire  nearly  the  hardness  and  consistence  of 
horn.  Other  things  are  also  tanned  for  the  purpose  of  preserving  them, 
as  fishing-nets  and  boat-sails.  This  use  of  the  bark  of  the  oak  makes  it 
a  very  valuable  commodity  ;  and  you  may  see  people  in  the  woods  care- 
fully stripping  the  oaks  when  cut  down,  and  piling  up  the  bark  in  heaps. 

Geo.  I  have  seen  such  heaps  of  bark,  but  I  thought  they  were  only  to 
burn. 

Tut.  No;  they  are  much  too  valuable  for  that.  Well,  but  I  have 
another  use  of  the  oak  to  mention,  and  that  is  in  dying. 

Har.    Dying  !  I  wonder  what  colour  it  can  die  ? 

Tut.  Oak  sawdust  is  a  principal  ingredient  in  dying  fustians.  By 
various  mixtures  and  management  it  is  made  to  give  them  all  the  different 
shades  of  drab  and  brown.  Then,  all  the  parts  of  the  oak,  like  all  other 
astringent  vegetables,  produce  a  dark  blue  or  black  by  the  addition  of  any 
preparation  of  iron.  The  bark  is  sometimes  used  in  this  way  for  dying 
black.     And  did  you  never  see  what  the  boys  call  an  oak-apple? 

Geo.    Yes ;  I  have  gathered  them  myself. 

Tut.    Do  you  know  what  they  are  ? 

Geo.    I  thought  they  were  the  fruit  of  the  oak. 

Tut.  No;  I  have  told  you  that  the  acorns  are  the  fruits.  These  are 
excresoences  formed  by  an  insect. 

Geo.     An  insect !  how  can  they  make  such  a  thing  ? 


,^*\ 


ON    THE    OAK. 


79 


Tut.  It  is  a  sort  of  fly,  that  has  the  power  of  piercing  the  outer  skin 
of  the  oak  boughs,  under  which  it  lays  its  eggs.  The  part  then  swells 
into  a  kind  of  ball,  and  the  young  insects,  when  hatched,  eat  their  way 
out.  Well  this  ball  or  apple  is  a  pretty  strong  astringent,  and  is  some- 
times used  in  dying  black.  But  in  the  warm  countries  there  is  a  species 
of  oak  which  bears  round  excrescences  of  the  same  kind,  called  galls, 
which  become  hard,  and  are  the  strongest  astringents  known.  They  are 
the  principal  ingredients  in  the  black  dies,  and  common  ink  is  made  with 
them,  together  with  a  substance  called  green  vitriol,  or  copperas,  which 
contains  iron. 

I  have  now  told  you  the  chief  uses  that  I  can  recollect  of  the  oak;  and 
these  are  so  important,  that  whoever  drops  an  acorn  into  the  ground,  and 
takes  proper  care  of  it  when  it  comes  up,  may  be  said  to  be  a  benefactor 
to  his  country.  Besides,  no  sight  can  be  more  beautiful  and  majestic 
than  a  fine  oak-wood.  It  is  an  ornament  fit  for  the  habitation  of  the  first 
nobleman  in  the  land. 

Har.  I  wonder,  then,  that  all  rich  gentlemen  who  have  ground  enough 
do  not  cover  it  with  oaks. 

Tut.  Many  of  them,  especially  of  late  years,  have  made  great  planta- 
tions of  these  trees.  But  all  soils  do  not  suit  them  ;  and  then  there  is 
another  circumstance  which  prevents  many  from  being  at  this  trouble  and 
expense,  which  is  the  long  time  an  oak  takes  in  growing,  so  that  no 
person  can  reasonably  expect  to  profit  by  those  of  his  own  planting.  An 
oak  of  fifty  years  is  greatly  short  of  its  full  growth,  and  they  are  scarcely 
arrived  at  perfection  under  a  century.  However,  it  is  our  duty  to  think 
of  posterity  as  well  as  ourselves  ;  and  they  who  receive  oaks  from  their 
ancestors,  ought  certainly  to  furnish  others  to  their  successors. 

Har.  Then  I  think  that  every  one  who  cuts  down  an  oak  should  be 
obliged  to  plant  another. 

Tut.  Very  right — but  he  should  plant  two  or  three  for  one,  for  fear  of 
accidents  in  their  growing. 

I  will  now  repeat  to  you  some  verses  describing  the  oak  in  its  state  of 
full  growth,  or  rather  of  beginning  to  decay,  with  the  various  animals 
living  upon  it — and  then  we  will  walk. 

"  See  where  yon  Oak  its  awful  structure  rears, 
The  massy  growth  of  twice  a  hundred  years ; 
Survey  his  rugged  trunk  with  moss  o'ergrown, 
His  lusty  arms  in  rude  disorder  thrown, 


X 


80  SIXTH    EVENING. 

His  forking  branches  wide  at  distance  spread, 
And  dark'ning  half  the  sky,  his  lofty  head. 
A  mighty  castle,  built  by  Nature's  hands, 
Peopled  by  various  living  tribes,  he  stands. 
His  airy  top  the  clamorous  rooks  invest, 
And  crowd  the  waving  boughs  with  many  a  nest. 
Midway  the  nimble  squirrel  builds  his  bower; 
And  sharp-billed  pies  the  insect  tribes  devour 
That  gnaw  beneath  the  bark  their  secret  ways, 
While  unperceived  the  stately  pile  decays." 


ALFRED.— A  Drama. 

PERSONS     OF     THE     DRAMA. 

Alfred King  of  England. 

Gubba  ......  a  Farmer. 

Gandelin  .        .  ...  his  Wife. 

Ella  an  Officer  of  Alfred. 

Scene —  Ttie  Isle  of  Athelney. 

Alfred.  How  retired  and  quiet  is  everything  in  this  little  spot !  The 
river  winds  its  silent  waters  round  this  retreat ;  and  the  tangled  bushes  of 
the  thicket  fence  it  from  the  attack  of  an  enemy.  The  bloody  Danes 
have  not  yet  pierced  into  this  wild  solitude.  I  believe  I  am  safe  from 
their  pursuit.  But  I  hope  I  shall  find  some  inhabitants  here,  otherwise 
I  shall  die  of  hunger.  Ha !  here  is  a  narrow  path  through  the  wood,  and 
I  think  I  see  the  smoke  of  a  cottage  rising  between  the  trees.  I  will  bend 
my  steps  thither. 

Scene — Before  the  Cottage. 
Gubba  coming  forward.     Gandelin,  within. 

Alfred.  Good  even  to  you,  good  man.  Are  you  disposed  to  show 
hospitality  to  a  poor  traveller  ? 

Gubba.  Why  truly  there  are  so  many  poor  travellers  now-a-days,  that 
if  we  entertain  them  all,  we  shall  have  nothing  left  for  ourselves. 
However,  come  along  to  my  wife,  and  we  will  see  what  can  he  done  for 
you.    "Wife,  I  am  very  weary :  I  have  been  chopping  wood  all  day. 

Gandelin.  You  are  always  ready  for  your  supper,  but  it  is  not  ready 
for  you,  I  assure  you  :  the  cakes  will  take  an  hour  to  bake,  and  the  sun  is 


ALFRED.  SI 

yet  high ;  it  has  not  yet  dipped  behind  the  old  barn.  But  who  have  you 
with  you,  I  trow  ? 

Alfred.  Good  mother,  I  am  a  stranger ;  and  entreat  you  to  afford  me 
food  and  shelter. 

Gandelin.  Good  mother,  quotha!  Good  wife,  if  you  please,  and 
welcome.  But  I  do  not  love  strangers ;  and  the  land  has  no  reason  to 
love  them.  It  has  never  been  a  merry  day  for  Old  England  since  strangers 
came  into  it. 

Alfred.  I  am  not  a  stranger  in  England,  though  I  am  a  stranger  here. 
I  am  a  truebom  Englishman. 

Gubba.  And  do  you  hate  those  wicked  Danes,  that  eat  us  up,  and 
burn  our  houses,  and  drive  away  our  cattle  ? 

Alfred.    I  do  hate  them. 

Gandelin.    Heartily !  he  does  not  speak  heartily,  husband. 

Alfred.    Heartily  I  hate  them ;  most  heartily. 

Gubba.     Give  me  thy  hand,  then ;  thou  art  an  honest  fellow. 

Alfred.    I  was  with  King  Alfred  in  the  last  battle  he  fought. 

Gandelin.    With  King  Alfred  1    Heaven  bless  him ! 

Gubba.    What  is  become  of  our  good  king  ? 

Alfred.    Did  you  love  him,  then  ? 

Gubba.  Yes,  as  much  as  a  poor  man  may  love  a  king;  and  kneeled 
down  and  prayed  for  him  every  night,  that  he  might  conquer  those  Danish 
wolves  ;  but  it  was  not  to  be  so. 

Alfred.    You  could  not  love  Alfred  better  than  I  did. 

Gubba.    But  what  is  become  of  him  ? 

Alfred.    He  is  thought  to  be  dead. 

Gubba.  Well,  these  are  sad  times;  Heaven  help  us!  Come,  you 
shall  be  welcome  to  share  the  brown  loaf  with  us ;  I  suppose  you  are 
too  sharp  set  to  be  nice. 

Gandelin.  Ay,  come  with  us ;  you  shall  be  as  welcome  as  a  prince ! 
But  hark  ye,  husband ;  though  I  am  very  willing  to  be  charitable  to  this 
stranger,  (it  would  be  a  sin  to  be  otherwise,)  yet  there  is  no  reason  he 
should  not  do  something  to  maintain  himself:  he  looks  strong  and  capable. 

Gubba.    Why,  that 's  true.     What  can  you  do,  friend  ? 

Alfred.  I  am  very  willing  to  help  you  in  anything  you  choose  to  set 
me  about.    It  will  please  me  best  to  earn  my  bread  before  I  eat  it. 

Gubba.    Let  me  see.    Can  you  tie  up  fagots  neatly  ? 

Alfred.    I  have  not  been  used  to  it.    I  am  afraid  I  should  be  awkward. 

4* 


82  SIXTH    EVENING. 

Gubba.     Can  you  thatch  ?     There  is  a  piece  blown  off  the  cowhouse. 

Alfred.     Alas  !  I  cannot  thatch. 

Gandelin.  Ask  him  if  he  can  weave  rushes :  we  want  some  new 
baskets. 

Alfred.    I  have  never  learned. 

Gubba.     Can  you  stack  hay  ? 

Alfred.    No. 

Gubba.  Why,  here 's  a  fellow !  and  yet  he  hath  as  many  pair  of  hands 
as  his  neighbours.  Dame,  can  you  employ  him  in  the  house  ?  He  might 
lay  wood  on  the  fire,  and  rub  the  tables. 

Gandelin.  Let  him  watch  these  cakes,  then :  I  must  go  and  milk  the  kine. 

Gubba.    And  I  '11  go  and  stack  the  wood,  since  supper  is  not  ready. 

Gandelin.  But  pray,  observe,  friend ;  do  not  let  the  cakes  burn  j  turn 
them  often  on  the  hearth. 

Alfred.    I  shall  observe  your  directions. 

Alfred  alone. 

Alfred.  For  myself,  I  could  bear  it:  but  England,  my  bleeding 
country,  for  thee  my  heart  is  wrung  with  bitter  anguish! — From  the 
Humber  to  the  Thames  the  rivers  are  stained  with  blood.  My  brave 
soldiers  cut  to  pieces !  My  poor  people — some  massacred,  others  driven 
from  their  warm  homes,  stripped,  abused,  insulted  ;  and  I,  whom  Heaven 
appointed  their  shepherd,  unable  to  rescue  my  defenceless  flock  from  the 
ravenous  jaws  of  these  devourers !  Gracious  Heaven !  if  I  am  not  worthy 
to  save  this  land  from  the  Danish  sword,  raise  up  some  other  hero  to  fight 
with  more  success  than  I  have  done,  and  let  me  spend  my  life  in  this 
obscure  cottage,  in  these  servile  offices :  I  shall  be  content  if  England  is 
happy.     O !  here  come  my  blunt  host  and  hostess. 

Enter  Gubba  and  Gandelin. 

Gandelin.  Help  me  down  with  the  pail,  husband*.  This  new  milk, 
with  the  cakes,  will  make  an  excellent  supper :  but,  mercy  on  us,  how 
they  are  burnt !  black  as  my  shoe ;  they  have  not  once  been  turned :  you 
oaf,  you  lubber,  you  lazy  loon — 

Alfred.  Indeed,  dame,  I  am  sorry  for  it:  but  my  mind  was  full  of  sad 
thoughts. 

Gubba.  Come,  wife,  you  must  forgive  him ;  perhaps  he  is  in  love.  I 
remember  when  I  was  in  love  with  thee 


ALFRED.  83 

Gandelin.    You  remember ! 

Gubba.  Yes,  dame,  I  do  remember  it,  though  it  is  many  a  long  year 
since  ;  my  mother  was  making  a  kettle  of  furmety — 

Gandelin.    Pr'y  thee,  hold  thy  tongue,  and  let  us  eat  our  suppers. 

Alfred.  How  refreshing  is  this  sweet  new  milk,  and  this  wholesome 
bread ! 

Gubba.    Eat  heartily,  friend.     Where  shall  we  lodge  him,  Gandelin? 

Gandelin.  We  have  but  one  bed  you  know  j  but  there  is  fresh  straw 
in  the  barn. 

Alfred  (aside).  If  I  shall  not  lodge  like  a  king,  at  least  I  shall  lodge 
like  a  soldier.  Alas !  how  many  of  my  poor  soldiers  are  stretched  on  the 
bare  ground ! 

Gandelin.  What  noise  do  I  hear!  It  is  the  tramping  of  horses. 
Good  husband,  go  and  see  what  is  the  matter ! 

Alfred.  Heaven  forbid  my  misfortunes  should  bring  destruction  on  this 
simple  family  !     I  had  rather  have  perished  in  the  wood. 

Gubba  returns,  followed  by  Ella,  with  his  sword  drawn. 

Gandelin,    Mercy  defend  us,  a  sword  ! 

Gubba.     The  Danes  !  the  Danes !     O,  do  not  kill  us  ! 

Ella  (kneeling).  My  liege,  my  lord,  my  sovereign  !  have  I  found 
you? 

Alfred  (embracing  him).    My  brave  Ella  ! 

Ella.  I  bring  you  good  news,  my  sovereign  !  Your  troops  that  were 
shut  up  in  Kinwith  Castle  made  a  desperate  sally — the  Danes  were 
slaughtered.     The  fierce  Hubba  lies  gasping  on  the  plain. 

Alfred.    Is  it  possible  !     Am  I  yet  a  king  ! 

Ella.  Their  famous  standard,  the  Danish  raven,  is  taken ;  their  troops 
are  panic-struck ;  the  English  soldiers  call  aloud  for  Alfred.  Here  is  a 
letter  which  will  inform  you  of  more  particulars.     (  Gives  a  letter.) 

Gubba  (aside).  What  will  become  of  us?  Ah!  dame,  that  tongue 
of  thine  has  undone  us  ! 

Gandelin.  O,  my  poor  dear  husband  !  we  shall  all  be  hanged,  that 's 
certain.     But  who  could  have  thought  it  was  the  king  ? 

Gubba.  Why,  Gandelin,  do  you  see  we  might  have  guessed  he  was 
born  to  be  a  king,  or  some  such  great  man,  because,  you  know,  he  was  fit 
for  nothing  else. 


84  SIXTH    EVENING. 

Alfred  {coming  forward).  God  be  praised  for  these  tidings  !  Hope 
is  sprang  up  out  of  the  depth  of  despair.  O,  my  friend  !  shall  I  again 
shine  in  arms — again  fight  at  the  head  of  my  brave  Englishmen — lead 
them  on  to  victory  !     Our  friends  shall  now  lift  their  heads  again. 

Ella.  Yes,  you  have  many  friends,  who  have  long  been  obliged,  like 
their  master,  to  skulk  in  deserts  and  caves,  and  wander  from  cottage  to 
cottage.  When  they  hear  you  are  alive  and  in  arms  again,  they  will  leave 
their  fastnesses,  and  flock  to  your  standard. 

Alfred.    I  am  impatient  to  meet  them :  my  people  shall  be  revenged. 

Gubba  and  Gandelin  (throwing  themselves  at  the  feet  of  Alfred). 
O,  my  lord 

Gandelin.  We  hope  your  majesty  will  put  us  to  a  merciful  death. 
Indeed,  we  did  not  know  your  majesty's  grace. 

Gubba.  If  your  majesty  could  but  pardon  my  wife's  tongue  \  she 
means  no  harm,  poor  woman ! 

Alfred.  Pardon  you,  good  people  !  I  not  only  pardon  you,  but  thank 
you.  You  have  afforded  me  protection  in  my  distress  ;  and  if  ever  I  am 
seated  again  on  the  throne  of  England,  my  first  care  shall  be  to  reward 
your  hospitality.  I  am  now  going  to  protect  you.  Come,  my  faithful 
Ella,  to  arms  !  to  arms !  My  bosom  burns  to  face  once  more  the  haughty 
Dane ;  and  here  I  vow  to  Heaven,  that  I  will  never  sheath  the  sword 
against  these  robbers,  till  either  I  lose  my  life  in  this  just  cause,  or 

"  Till  dove-like  peace  return  to  England's  shore, 
And  war  and  slaughter  vex  the  land  no  more." 


EVENING  VII. 


ON  THE  PINE  AND  FIR  TRIBE.— A  Dialogue. 
Tutor —  George — Harry. 

Tutor.  Let  us  sit  down  awhile  on  this  bench,  and  look  about  us. 
What  a  charming  prospect ! 

Harry.  I  admire  those  pleasure-grounds.  What  beautiful  clumps  of 
trees  there  are  in  that  lawn  ! 

George.    But  what  a  dark  gloomy  wood  that  is  at  the  back  of  the  house ! 

Tut.  It  is  a  fir  plantation ;  and  those  trees  always  look  dismal  in  the 
summer,  when  there  are  so  manv  finer  greens  to  compare  them  with. 

85 


86  SEVENTH    EVENING. 

But  the  winter  is  their  time  for  show,  when  other  trees  are  stripped  of  their 
verdure. 

Geo.     Then  they  are  evergreens. 

Tut.  Yes ;  most  of  the  fir  tribe  are  evergreens ;  and  as  they  are 
generally  natives  of  cold  mountainous  countries,  they  contribute  greatly  to 
cheer  the  wintry  landscape. 

Geo.  You  were  so  good  when  we  walked  out  last,  to  tell  us  a  great 
deal  about  oaks.  I  thought  it  one  of  the  prettiest  lessons  I  ever  heard.  I 
should  be  glad  if  you  would  give  us  such  another  about  firs. 

Har.     So  should  I,  too,  I  'm  sure. 

Tut.  With  all  my  heart,  and  I  am  pleased  that  you  ask  me.  Nothing 
is  so  great  an  encouragement  to  a  tutor  as  to  find  his  pupils  of  their  own 
accord  seeking  after  useful  knowledge. 

Geo,    And  I  think  it  is  very  useful  to  know  such  things  as  these. 

Tut.  Certainly  it  is.  Well,  then — you  may  know  the  pine  or  fir  tribe 
in  general  at  first  sight,  as  most  of  them  are  of  a  bluish-green  colour,  and 
all  have  leaves  consisting  of  a  strong  narrow  pointed  blade,  which  gives 
them  somewhat  of  a  stiff  appearance.  Then  all  of  them  bear  a  hard 
scaly  fruit,  of  a  longish  or  conical  form. 

Har.     Are  they  what  we  call  fir-apples  ? 

Tut,    Yes ;  that  is  one  of  the  names  boys  give  them. 

Har.    We  often  pick  them  up  under  trees,  and  throw  them  at  each  other. 

Geo.  I  have  sometimes  brought  home  my  pocket  full  to  burn.  They 
make  a  fine  clear  flame. 

Tut.    Well — do  you  know  where  the  seeds  lie  in  them. 

Geo.    No — have  they  any  ? 

Tut.  Yes — at  the  bottom  of  every  scale  lie  two  winged  seeds  ;  but 
when  the  scales  open,  the  seeds  fall  out :  so  that  you  can  seldom  find 
any  in  those  you  pick  up. 

Har.     Are  the  seeds  good  for  anything? 

Tut.  There  is  a  kind  of  pine  in  the  south  of  Europe  called  the  stone- 
pine,  the  kernels  of  which  are  eaten,  and  said  to  be  as  sweet  as  an  almond. 
And  birds  pick  out  the  seeds  of  other  sorts,  though  they  are  so  well 
defended  by  the  woody  scales. 

Har.     They  must  have  good  strong  bills  then 

Tut.'  Of  this  tribe  of  trees  a  variety  of  species  are  found  in  different 
countries,  and  are  cultivated  in  this.  But  the  only  kind  native  here  is  the 
wild-pine  or  Scotch-fir.     Of  this,  there  are  large  natural  forests  in  the 


ON    THE    PINE    AND    FIR.  87 

Highlands  of  Scotland  ;  and  the  principal  plantations  consist  of  it.  It 
is  a  hardy  sort,  fit  for  barren  and  mountainous  soils,  but  grows  slowly. 

Geo.  Pray,  what  are  those  very  tall  trees  that  grow  in  two  rows  before 
the  old  hall  in  our  village  ? 

Tut.  They  are  the  common  or  spruce  fir,  a  native  of  Norway,  and 
other  northern  countries,  and  one  of  the  loftiest  of  the  tribe.  But  observe 
those  trees  that  grow  singly  in  the  grounds  opposite  to  us  with  wide- 
spread branches  spreading  downward,  and  trailing  on  the  ground,  thence 
gradually  lessening  till  the  top  of  the  tree  ends  almost  in  a  point. 

Har.    What  beautiful  trees  ! 

Tut.  They  are  the  Pines  called  Larches,  natives  of  the  Alps  and 
Apennines,  introduced  into  this  country  about  the  middle  of  the  last 
century,  for  the  purpose,  at  first,  of  decorating  our  gardens,  and  of  which 
extensive  plantations  for  timber  have  since  been  made,  both  in  England 
and  Scotland.  These  are  not  properly  evergreens,  as  they  shed  their 
leaves  in  winter,  but  quickly  recover  them  again.  Then  we  have  besides 
the  Weymouth  pine,  which  is  the  tallest  species  in  America — the  silver 
fir,  so  called  from  the  silvery  hue  of  its  foliage — the  pinaster — and  a 
tree  of  ancient  fame,  the  cedar  of  Lebanon. 

Geo.    I  suppose  that  is  a  very  great  tree  ? 

Tut.     It  grows  to  a  large  size,  but  is  slow  in  coming  to  its  full  growth. 

Geo.    Are  pines  and  firs  very  useful  trees  ? 

Tut.  Perhaps  the  most  so  of  any.  By  much  the  greatest  part  of  the 
wood  at  present  used  among  us  comes  from  them. 

Har.    What — more  than  from  the  oak  ? 

Tut.  Yes,  much  more.  Almost  all  the  timber  used  in  building  houses, 
for  floors,  beams,  rafters,  and  roofs,  is  fir. 

Geo.    Does  it  all  grow  in  this  country  ? 

Tut.  Scarcely  any  of  it.  Norway,  Sweden,  and  Russia,  are  the 
countries  from  which  we  draw  our  timber,  and  a  vast  trade  there  is  in  it. 
You  have  seen  timber-yards  ? 

Geo.     O  yes — several. 

Tut.  In  them  you  would  observe  some  very  long  thick  beams,  called 
balks.  These  are  whole  trees,  only  stripped  of  the  bark  and  squared. 
You  would  also  see  great  piles  of  planks  and  boards,  of  different  lengths 
and  thickness.  Those  are  called  deal,  and  are  brought  over  ready  sawn 
from  the  countries  where  they  grow.  They  are  of  different  colours.  The 
white  are  chiefly  from  the  fir-tree ;  the  yellow  and  red  from  the  pine. 


88  SEVENTH    EVENING. 

Har.  I  suppose  there  must  be  great  forests  of  them  in  those  countries, 
or  else  they  could  not  send  us  so  much. 

Tut.  Yes :  the  mountains  of  Norway  are  overrun  with  them,  enough 
for  the  supply  of  all  Europe ;  but  on  account  of  their  ruggedness,  and 
the  want  of  roads,  it  is  found  impossible  to  get  the  trees,  when  felled, 
down  to  the  seacoast,  unless  they  grow  near  some  river. 

Geo.    How  do  they  manage  then  ? 

Tut.  They  take  the  opportunity  when  the  rivers  are  swelled  with  rams 
or  melted  snow,  and  tumble  the  trees  into  them,  when  they  are  carried 
down  to  the  mouth  of  the  rivers,  where  they  are  stopped  by  a  kind  of  pens. 

Har.     I  should  like  to  see  them  swimming  down  the  stream. 

Tut,  Yes — it  would  be  curious  enough ;  for  in  some  places  these 
torrents  roll  over  rocks,  making  steep  waterfalls,  down  which  the  trees 
are  carried  headlong,  and  do  not  rise  again  till  they  are  got  to  a  great 
distance  ;  and  many  of  them  are  broken,  and  torn  to  pieces  in  the  passage. 

Geo.    Are  these  woods  used  for  anything  besides  building  ? 

Tut.  For  a  variety  of  purposes  ;  such  as  boxes,  trunks,  packing-cases, 
pales,  wainscots,  and  the  like.  Deal  is  a  very  soft  wood,  easily  worked, 
light,  and  cheap,  which  makes  it  preferred  for  so  many  uses,  though  it  is 
not  very  durable,  and  is  very  liable  to  split. 

Har.  Yes — I  know  my  box  is  made  of  deal,  and  the  lid  is  split  all  to 
pieces  with  driving  nails  into  it. 

Geo.    Are  ships  ever  built  with  fir  ? 

Tut.  It  was  one  of  the  first  woods  made  use  of  for  naval  purposes  ; 
and  in  the  poets  you  will  find  the  words  pine  and  fir  frequently 
employed  to  signify  ship.  But  as  navigation  has  improved,  the  stronger 
and  more  durable  woods  have  generally  taken  its  place.  However,  in 
the  countries  where  fir  is  very  plentiful,  large  ships  are  still  built  with 
it ;  for  though  they  last  but  a  short  time,  they  cost  so  little  in  proportion, 
that  the  profit  of  a  few  voyages  is  sufficient  to  repay  the  expense.  Then, 
from  the  great  lightness  of  the  wood,  they  swim  higher  in  the  water,  and 
consequently  will  bear  more  loading.  Most  of  the  large  ships  that  bring 
timber  from  Archangel,  in  Russia,  are  built  of  fir.  As  for  the  masts  of 
ships,  those  I  have  already  told  you  are  all  made  of  fir  or  pine,  on 
account  of  their  straightness  and  lightness. 

Geo.    Are  there  not  some  lines  in  Milton's  Paradise  Lost  about  that  ? 

Tut.  Yes :  the  spear  of  Satan  is  magnified  by  a  comparison  with  a 
lofty  pine. 


\ 


ON    THE    PINE    AND    FIR.  89 

His  spear,  to  equal  which  the  tallest  pine. 
Hewn  on  Norwegian  hills,  to  be  the  mast 
Of  some  great  admiral,  were  but  a  wand. 

Har.  I  remember,  too,  that  the  walking-staff  of  the  giant  Polypheme 
was  a  pine. 

Tut.  Ay— so  Homer  and  Ovid  tell  us,  and  he  must  have  been  a  giant 
indeed,  to  use  such  a  stick.  Well,  so  much  for  the  wood  of  these  trees. 
But  I  have  more  to  say  about  their  uses. 

Har.    I  am  glad  of  it. 

Tut.  All  of  the  tribe  contain  a  juice  of  a  bitterish  taste  and  strong 
fragrant  smell.  This,  in  some,  is  so  abundant  as  to  flow  out  from 
incisions ;  when  it  is  called  turpentine.  The  larch,  m  particular, 
yields  a  large  quantity.  Turpentine  is  one  of  the  substances  called 
resinous  ;  it  is  sticky,  transparent,  very  inflammable,  and  will  not  mix 
with  water,  but  will  dissolve  in  spirits  of  wine. 

Geo.     What  is  it  used  for  ? 

Tut.  It  is  used  medicinally,  particularly  in  the  composition  of 
pi  asters  and  ointments.  It  also  is  an  ingredient  in  varnishes,  cements, 
and  the  like.  An  oil  distilled  from  turpentine  is  employed  in  medicine, 
and  is  much  used  by  painters  for  mixing  up  their  colours.  What  remains 
after  getting  this  oil  is  common  resin.  All  these  substances  take  fire  very 
easily,  and  burn  with  a  great  flame ;  and  the  wood  of  the  pine  has  so 
much  of  this  quality,  when  dry,  that  it  is  often  used  for  torches. 

Har.    I  know  deal  shavings  burn  very  briskly. 

Geo.    Yes ;  and  matches  are  made  of  bits  of  deal  dipped  in  brimstone. 

Tut.  True, — and  when  it  was  the  custom  to  burn  the  bodies  of  the 
dead,  as  you  read  in  Homer  and  other  old  authors,  the  pines  and  pitch- 
trees  composed  great  part  of  the  funeral  pile. 

Har.    But  what  are  pitch  trees  ?    Does  pitch  grow  upon  trees  ? 

Tut.  I  was  going  on  to  tell  you  about  that.  Tar  is  a  product  of  the 
trees  of  this  kind,  especially  of  one  species,  called  the  pitch-pine.  The 
wood  is  burnt  in  a  sort  of  oven  made  in  the  earth,  and  the  resinous  juice 
sweats  out,  and  acquires  a  peculiar  taste  and  a  black  colour  from  the  fire. 
This  is  tar.     Tar  when  boiled  down  to  dryness  becomes  pitch. 

Geo.     Tar  and  pitch  are  chiefly  used  about  ships  ;  are  they  not  ? 

Tut.  They  resist  moisture,  and  therefore  are  of  great  service  in 
preventing  things  from  decaying  that  are  exposed  to  wet.  For  this 
reason,  the  cables  and  other  ropes  of  ships  are  well  soaked  with  tar ;  and 


90  SEVENTH    EVENING. 

the  sides  of  ships  are  covered  with  pitch  mixed  with  other  ingredients. 
Their  seams,  too,  or  the  places  where  the  planks  join,  are  filled  with  tow 
dipped  in  a  composition  of  resin,  tallow,  and  pitch,  to  keep  out  the  water. 
Wood  for  paling,  for  piles,  for  coverings  of  roofs  and  other  purposes  of 
the  like  nature,  is  often  tarred  over.  Cisterns  and  casks  are  pitched  to 
prevent  leaking. 

Har.    But  what  are  sheep  tarred  for  after  they  are  sheared  ? 

Tut.  To  cure  wounds  and  sores  in  their  skin.  For  the  like  purposes 
an  ointment  made  with  tar  is  often  rubbed  upon  children's  heads.  Several 
parts  of  the  pine  are  medicinal.  The  tops  and  green  cones  of  the  spruce- 
fir  are  fermented  with  treacle,  and  the  liquor,  called  spruce-beer,  is  much 
drunk  in  America,  particularly  for  the  scurvy. 

Geo.    Is  it  pleasant? 

Tut  Not  to  those  who  are  unaccustomed  to  it.  Well — I  have 
now  finished  my  lesson,  so  let  us  walk. 

Har.     Shall  we  go  through  the  grounds  ? 

Tut.  Yes ;  and  then  we  will  view  some  of  the  different  kinds  of  fir 
and  pine  more  closely,  and  I  will  show  you  the  difference  of  their  leaves 
and  cones,  by  which  they  are  distinguished. 

ON  DIFFERENT  STATIONS  IN  LIFE.— A  Dialogue. 

Little  Sally  Meanwell  had  one  day  been  to  pay  an  afternoon's  visit  to 
Miss  Harriet,  the  daughter  of  Sir  Thomas  Pemberton.  The  evening 
proving  rainy,  she  was  sent  home  in  Sir  Thomas's  coach ;  and  on  her 
return,  the  following  conversation  passed  between  her  and  her  mother: — 

Mrs.  Meanwell.  Well,  my  dear,  I  hope  you  have  had  a  pleasant  visit? 

Sally.  O  yes,  mamma,  very  pleasant ;  you  cannot  think  how  many 
fine  things  I  have  seen.     And  then  it  is  so  charming  to  ride  in  a  coach! 

Mrs.  M.    I  suppose  Miss  Harriet  showed  you  all  her  playthings  ? 

Sally.  O  yes,  such  fine  large  dolls,  so  smartly  dressed  as  I  never  saw 
in  my  life  before.  Then  she  has  a  baby-house,  and  all  sorts  of  furniture 
in  it ;  and  a  grotto  all  made  of  shells,  and  shining  stones.  And  then  she 
showed  me  all  her  fine  clothes  for  the  next  ball ;  there  's  a  white  slip  all 
full  of  spangles,  and  pink  ribands ;  you  can  't  think  how  beautiful  it  looks ! 

Mrs.  M.     And  what  did  you  admire  most  of  all  these  fine  things  ? 

Sally.  I  do  n't  know — I  admired  them  all ;  and  I  think  I  liked  riding 
m  the  coach  better  than  all  the  rest.  Why  do  n't  we  keep  a  coach  ; 
and  why  have  I  not  such  fine  clothes  and  playthings  as  Miss  Harriet  ? 


A    DIALOGUE.  91 

Mrs.  M.  Because  we  cannot  afford  it,  my  dear.  Your  papa  is  not  so 
rich  by  a  great  deal,  as  Sir  Thomas ;  and  if  we  were  to  lay  out  our  money 
upon  such  things,  we  should  not  be  able  to  procure  food  and  raiment  and 
other  necessaries  for  you  all. 

Sally,    But  why  is  not  papa  as  rich  as  Sir  Thomas  ? 

Mrs.  M.  Sir  Thomas  had  a  large  estate  left  him  by  his  father ;  but 
your  papa  has  little  but  what  he  gains  by  his  own  industry. 

Sally.  But  why  should  not  papa  be  as  rich  as  anybody  else  ?  I  am 
sure  he  deserves  it  as  well. 

Mrs.  M.  Do  you  not  think  that  there  are  a  great  many  people  poorer 
than  he,  that  are  also  very  deserving  ? 

Sally.    Are  there? 

Mrs.  M.  Yes,  to  be  sure.  Don't  you  know  what  a  number  of  poor 
people  there  are  all  around  us,  who  have  few  of  the  comforts  we  enjoy  ? 
What  do  you  think  of  Ploughman  the  labourer  ?  I  believe  you  never  saw 
him  idle  in  your  life. 

Sally.  No ;  he  is  gone  to  work  long  before  I  am  up,  and  he  does  not 
return  till  almost  bedtime,  unless  it  be  for  his  dinner. 

Mrs.  M.  Well !  how  do  you  think  his  wife  and  children  live?  should 
you  like  that  we  should  change  places  with  them  ? 

Sally.     O,  no  !  they  are  so  dirty  and  ragged. 

Mrs.  M.  They  are,  indeed,  poor  creatures;  but  I  am  afraid  they 
suffer  worse  evils  than  that. 

Sally.    What  mamma  ? 

Mrs.  M.  Why  I  am  afraid  they  often  do  not  get  as  much  victuals  as 
they  could  eat.  And  then  in  winter  they  must  be  half  frozen  for  want  of 
fire  and  warm  clothing.     How  do  you  think  you  could  bear  all  this  ? 

Sally.  Indeed,  I  do  n't  know.  But  I  have  seen  Ploughman's  wife  carry 
great  brown  loaves  into  the  house ;  and  I  remember  once  eating  some 
brown  bread  and  milk,  and  I  thought  it  very  good. 

Mrs.  M.  I  believe  you  would  not  much  like  it  constantly ;  besides, 
they  can  hardly  get  enough  of  that.  But  you  seem  to  know  almost  as 
little  of  the  poor  as  the  young  French  princess  did. 

Sally.    What  was  that,  mamma  ? 

Mrs.  M.  Why,  there  had  been  one  year  so  bad  a  harvest  in  France 
that  numbers  of  the  poor  were  famished  to  death.  This  calamity  was  so 
much  talked  of,  that  it  reached  the  court,  and  was  mentioned  before  the 
young  princesses.     "  Dear  me !"  said  one  of  them,  "  how  silly  that  was  ! 


X 


92  SEVENTH    EVENING. 


Why,  rather  than  be  famished,  I  would  eat  bread  and  cheese."  Her 
governess  was  then  obliged  to  acquaint  her  that  the  greatest  part  of  her 
father's  subjects  scarcely  ever  eat  anything  better  than  black  bread  all 
their  lives ;  and  that  vast  numbers  would  now  think  themselves  very 
happy  to  get  only  half  their  usual  pittance  of  that.  Such  wretchedness 
as  this  was  what  the  princess  had  not  the  least  idea  of;  and  the  account 
shocked  her  so  much,  that  she  was  glad  to  sacrifice  all  her  finery  to 
afford  some  relief  to  the  sufferings  of  the  poor. 

Sally.  But  I  hope  there  is  nobody  famished  in  our  country. 
Mrs.  M.  I  hope  not,  for  we  have  laws  by  which  every  person  is 
entitled  to  relief  from  the  parish,  if  he  is  unable  to  gain  a  subsistence; 
and  were  there  no  laws  about  it,  I  am  sure  it  would  be  our  duty  to  part 
with  every  superfluity,  rather  than  let  a  fellow-creature  perish  for  want 
of  necessaries. 

Sally.  Then  do  you  think  it  was  wrong  for  Miss  Pemberton  to  have 
all  those  fine  things  ? 

Mrs.  M.  No,  my  dear,  if  they  are  suitable  to  her  fortune,  and  do  not 
consume  the  money  which  ought  to  be  employed  in  more  useful  things 
to  herself  and  others. 

Sally.  But  why  might  she  not  be  contented  with  such  things  as  I 
have  ;  and  give  the  money  that  the  rest  cost  to  the  poor? 

Mrs.  M.    Because  she  can  afford  both  to  be  charitable  to  the  poor,  and 
also  to  indulge  herself  in  these  pleasures.    But  do  you  recollect  that  the 
children  of  Mr.  White  the  baker,  and  Mr.  Shape  the  tailor,  might  just 
ask  the  same  questions  about  you  ? 
Sally.    How  so  ? 

Mrs.  M.    Are  not  you  as  much  better  dressed,  and  as  much  more  plen- 
tifully supplied  with  playthings  than  they  are,  as  Miss  Harriet  is  than  you  ? 
Sally.    Why,  I  believe  I  may,  for  I  remember  Polly  White  was  very 
glad  of  one  of  my  old  dolls  ;  and  Nancy  Shape  cried  for  such  a  sash  as 
mine,  but  her  mother  would  not  let  her  have  one. 

Mrs.  M.  Then  you  see,  my  dear,  that  there  are  many  who  have  fewer 
things  to  be  thankful  for  than  you  have ;  and  you  may  also  learn  what 
ought  to  be  the  true  measure  of  the  expectations  of  children,  and  the 
indulgences  of  parents. 

Sally.    I  don't  quite  understand  you,  mamma. 

Mrs.  M.  Everything  ought  to  be  suited  to  the  station  in  which  we 
live  or  are  likely  to  live,  and  the  wants  and  duties  of  it.     Your  papa  and 


A    DIALOGUE.  93 

I  do  not  grudge  laying  out  part  of  our  money  to  promote  the  innocent 
pleasure  of  our  children :  but  it  would  be  very  wrong  in  us  to  lay  out  so 
much  on  this  account  as  would  oblige  us  to  spare  in  more  necessary 
articles;  as  in  their  education,  and  the  common  household  expenses 
required  in  our  way  of  living.  Besides,  it  would  be  so  far  from  making 
you  happier,  that  it  would  be  doing  you  the  greatest  injury. 

Sally.     How  could  that  be,  mamma  ? 

Mrs.  M.  If  you  were  now  to  be  dressed  like  Miss  Pemberton,  do  n't 
you  think  you  would  be  greatly  mortified  at  being  worse  dressed  when 
you  came  to  be  a  young  woman  1 

Sally.  I  believe  I  should,  mamma ;  for  then  perhaps  I  mighj  go  to 
assemblies ;  and  to  be  sure  I  should  like  to  be  as  smart  then  as  at  any  time. 

Mrs.  M.  Well,  but  it  would  be  still  more  improper  for  us  to  dress  you 
then  beyond  our  circumstances,  because  your  necessary  clothes  will  then 
cost  more,  you  know.  Then,  if  we  were  now  to  hire  a  coach  or  chair  for  you 
to  go  visiting  in,  should  you  like  to  leave  it  off  ever  afterward?  But 
you  have  no  reason  to  expect  that  you  will  be  able  to  have  those  indul- 
gences when  you  are  a  woman.  And  so  it  is  in  everything  else.  The 
more  fine  things,  and  the  more  gratifications  you  have  now,  the  more  you 
will  require  hereafter :  for  custom  makes  things  so  familiar  to  us,  that 
while  we  enjoy  them  less  we  want  them  more. 

Sally.    How  is  that,  mamma  ? 

Mrs.  M.  Why,  do  n't  you  think  you  have  enjoyed  your  ride  in  the 
coach  this  evening  more  than  Miss  Harriet  should  have  done  ? 

Sally.  I  suppose  I  have  ;  because  if  Miss  Harriet  liked  it  so  well,  she 
would  be  always  riding,  for  I  know  she  might  have  the  coach  whenever 
she  pleased. 

Mrs.  M.  But  if  you  were  both  told  that  you  were  never  to  ride  in  a 
coach  again,  which  would  think  it  the  greater  hardship  ?  You  could 
walk,  you  know,  as  you  have  always  done  before ;  but  she  would  rather 
stay  at  home,  I  believe,  than  expose  herself  to  the  cold  wind,  and  trudge 
through  the  wet  and  dirt  in  pattens. 

Sally.  I  believe  so,  too;  and  now,  mamma,  I  see  that  all  you  have  tolo 
me  is  very  right. 

Mrs.  M.  Well,  my  dear,  let  it  dwell  upon  your  mind,  so  as  to  make 
you  cheerful  and  contented  in  your  station,  which  you  see  is  so  much 
happier  than  that  of  many  and  many  other  children.  So  now  we  will  talk 
no  more  on  the  subject. 


EVENING  VIII. 


THE  ROOKERY. 

"There  the  hoarse- voiced  hungry  rook, 
Near  her  stick-built  nest  doth  croak, 
Waving  on  the  topmost  bough." 

These  lines  Mr.  Stangrove  repeated  pointing  up  to  a  rookery,  as  he 
was  walking  in  an  avenue  of  tall  trees,  with  his  son  Francis. 

Francis.  Is  that  a  rookery,  papa  ? 

Mr.  Stangrove.  It  is.     Do  you  hear  what  a  cawing  the  birds  make  ? 

Fr.  Yes ;  and  I  see  them  hopping  about  among  the  boughs.  Pray,  are 
not  rooks  the  same  with  crows  ?  i : 


* 


THE    ROOKERY.  95 

Mr.  St.  They  are  a  species  of  crow;  but  they  differ  from  the  carrion 
crow  and  raven  in  not  living  upon  dead  flesh,  but  upon  corn  and  other 
seeds,  and  grass.  They  indeed  pick  up  beetles  and  other  insects  and 
worms.  See  what  a  number  of  them  have  lighted  on  yonder  ploughed 
field,  almost  blackening  it  over. 

Fr.  What  are  they  doing  ? 

Mr.  St.  Searching  for  grubs  and  worms.  You  see  the  men  in  the 
field  do  not  molest  them,  for  they  do  a  great  deal  of  service  by  destroy- 
ing grubs,  which,  if  they  were  suffered  to  grow  to  winged  insects,  would 
do  much  mischief  to  the  trees  and  plants. 

Fr.  But  do  they  hurt  the  corn  ? 

Mr.  St.  Yes,  they  tear  up  a  good  deal  of  green  corn,  if  they  are  not 
driven  away.  But  upon  the  whole,  rooks  are  reckoned  the  farmers'  friends  ; 
and  they  do  not  choose  to  have  them  destroyed. 

Fr.  Do  all  rooks  live  in  rookeries  ? 

Mr.  St.  It  is  the  general  nature  of  them  to  associate  together,  and 
build  in  numbers  on  the  same  or  adjoining  trees.  But  this  is  often  in  the 
midst  of  woods  or  natural  groves.  However,  they  have  no  objections  to 
the  neighbourhood  of  man,  but  readily  take  to  a  plantation  of  tall  trees, 
though  it  be  close  to  a  house ;  and  this  is  commonly  called  a  rookery. 
They  will  even  fix  their  habitations  on  trees  in  the  midst  of  towns  ;  and 
I  have  seen  a  rookery  in  a  churchyard  in  one  of  the  closest  parts  of  London. 

Fr.  I  think  a  rookery  is  a  sort  of  town  itself. 

Mr.  St.  It  is :  a  village  in  the  air,  peopled  with  numerous  inhabitants  ; 
and  nothing  can  be  more  amusing  than  to  view  them  all  in  motion,  flying 
to  and  fro,  and  busied  in  their  several  occupations.  The  spring  is  their 
busiest  time.  Early  in  the  year  they  begin  to  repair  their  nests  or  build 
new  ones. 

Fr.  Do  they  all  work  together  or  every  one  for  itself? 

Mr.  St.  Each  pair,  after  they  have  coupled,  build  their  own  nest ;  and 
instead  of  helping,  they  are  very  apt  to  steal  the  materials  from  one 
another.  If  both  birds  go  out  at  once  in  search  of  sticks,  they  often  find 
at  their  return,  the  work  all  destroyed,  and  the  materials  carried  off;  so 
that  one  of  them  generally  stays  at  home  to  keep  watch.  However,  I 
have  met  with  a  story  which  shows  that  they  are  not  without  some  sense 
of  the  criminality  of  thieving.  There  was  in  a  rookery  a  lazy  pair  of 
rooks,  who  never  went  out  to  get  sticks  for  themselves,  but  made  a  prac- 
tice of  watching  when  their  neighbours  were  abroad,  and  helped  themselves 


96  EIGHTH    EVENING. 

from  their  nests.  They  had  served  most  of  the  community  in  this  manner 
and  by  these  means  had  just  finished  their  own  nest ;  when  all  the  other 
rooks  in  a  rage,  fell  upon  them  at  once,  pulled  their  nest  in  pieces,  beat 
them  soundly,  and  drove  them  from  their  society. 

Fr.  That  was  very  right — I  should  have  liked  to  have  seen  it.  But 
why  do  they  live  together  if  they  do  not  help  one  another  1 

Mr.  St.  They  probably  receive  pleasure  from  the  company  of  their 
own  kind,  as  men  and  various  other  creatures  do.  Then,  though  they 
do  not  assist  one  another  in  building,  they  are  mutually  serviceable  in 
many  ways.  If  a  large  bird  of  prey  hovers  about  a  rookery  for  the 
purpose  of  carrying  off  any  of  the  young  ones,  they  all  unite  to  drive  him 
away.  When  they  are  feeding  in  a  flock,  several  are  placed  as  sentinels 
upon  the  trees  all  round,  who  give  the  alarm  if  any  danger  approaches. 
They  often  go  a  long  way  from  home  to  feed ;  but  every  evening  the 
whole  flock  returns,  making  a  loud  cawing  as  they  fly,  as  if  to  direct  and 
call  in  the  stragglers.  The  older  rooks  take  the  lead :  you  may  distinguish 
them  by  the  whiteness  of  their  bills,  occasioned  by  their  frequent  digging 
in  the  ground,  by  which  the  black  feathers  at  the  root  of  the  bill  are  worn  off. 

Fr.  Do  rooks  always  keep  to  the  same  trees  ? 

Mr.  St.  Yes ;  they  are  much  attached  to  them,  and  when  the  trees 
happen  to  be  cut  down,  they  seem  greatly  distressed,  and  keep  hovering 
about  them  as  they  are  falling,  and  will  scarcely  desert  them  when  they 
lie  on  the  ground. 

JFV.  Poor  things  !  I  suppose  they  feel  as  we  should  if  our  town  was 
burnt  down  or  overthrown  by  an  earthquake. 

Mr.  St.  No  doubt.  The  societies  of  animals  greatly  resemble  those  of 
men ;  and  that  of  rooks  is  like  those  of  men  in  a  savage  state,  such  as  the 
communities  of  the  North  American  Indians.  It  is  a  sort  of  league  for 
mutual  aid  and  defence,  but  in  which  every  one  is  left  to  do  as  he  pleases, 
without  any  obligation  to  employ  himself  for  the  whole  body.  Others 
unite  in  a  manner  resembling  more  civilized  societies  of  men.  This 
is  the  case  with  the  beavers.  They  perform  great  public  works  by 
the  united  efforts  of  the  whole  community,  such  as  damming  up  streams, 
and  constructing  mounds  for  their  habitations.  As  these  are  works  of 
great  art  and  labour,  some  of  them  must  probably  act  under  the  direction 
of  others,  and  be  compelled  to  work  whether  they  will  or  not.  Many 
curious  stories  are  told  to  this  purpose  by  those  who  have  observed  them 
in  their  remotest  haunts,  where  they  exercise  their  full  sagacity. 


THE    SHIP.  $7 

Fr.  But  are  they  all  true  ? 

Mr.  St.  That  is  more  than  I  can  answer  for ;  yet  what  we  certainly 
know  of  the  economy  of  bees  may  justify  us  in  believing  extraordinary 
things  of  the  sagacity  of  animals.  The  society  of  bees  goes  farther  than 
that  of  beavers,  and,  in  some  respects,  beyond  most  among  men  themselves. 
They  not  only  inhabit  a  common  dwelling,  and  perform  great  works  in 
common,  but  they  lay  up  a  store  of  provision,  which  is  the  property  of  the 
whole  community,  and  is  not  used  except  at  certain  seasons,  and  under 
certain  regulations.  A  beehive  is  a  true  image  of  a  commonwealth, 
where  no  member  acts  for  himself  alone,  but  for  the  whole  body. 

Fr.  But  there  are  drones  among  them  who  do  not  work  at  all. 

Mr.  St.  Yes  ;  and  at  the  approach  of  winter  they  are  driven  out  of  the 
hive,  and  left  to  perish  with  cold  and  hunger.  But  I  have  not  leisure  at 
present  to  tell  you  more  about  bees.  You  shall  one  day  see  them  at 
work  in  a  glass  hive.  In  the  meantime,  remember  one  thing,  which 
applies  to  all  the  societies  of  animals ;  and  I  wish  it  did  as  well  to  all 
those  of  men  likewise. 

Fr.  What  is  that  ? 

Mr.  St.  The  principle  upon  which  they  all  associate,  is  to  obtain  some 
benefit  for  the  whole  body,  not  to  give  particular  advantages  to  a  few. 


THE  SHIP. 

Charles  Osborn,  when  at  home  in  the  holydays,  had  a  visit  from  a 
schoolfellow  who  was  just  entered  as  a  midshipman  on  board  of  a  man- 
of-war.  Tom  Hardy  (that  was  his  name)  was  a  free-hearted,  spirited 
lad,  and  a  favourite  among  his  companions  ;  but  he  never  liked  his  book, 
and  had  left  school  ignorant  of  almost  everything  he  came  there  to  learn. 
What  was  worse,  he  had  got  a  contempt  for  learning  of  all  kinds,  and 
was  fond  of  showing  it.  "  What  does  your  father  mean,"  says  he,  to 
Charles,  "to  keep  you  moping  and  studying  over  things  of  no  use  in  the 
world  but  to  plague  folks  ?— Why  can 't  you  go  into  his  majesty's  service 
like  me,  and  be  made  a  gentleman  of?  You  are  old  enough,  and  I  know 
you  are  a  lad  of  spirit."  This  kind  of  talk  made  some  impression  upon 
young  Osborn.  He  became  less  attentive  to  the  lessons  his  father  set 
him,  and  less  willing  to  enter  into  instructive  conversation.  This  change 
gave  his  father  much  concern ;  but  as  he  knew  the  cause,  he  thought  it 
best,  instead   of  employing   direct  authority,  to   attempt  to  give  a  new 

5 


98  EIGHTH    EVENING. 

impression  to  his  son's  mind,  which  might  counteract  the  effect  of  his 
companion's  suggestions. 

Being  acquainted  with  an  East  India  captain,  who  was  on  the  point  of 
sailing,  he  went  with  his  son  to  pay  him  a  farewell  visit  on  board  his  ship. 
They  were  shown  all  about  the  vessel,  and  viewed  all  the  preparations 
for  so  long  a  voyage.  They  saw  her  weigh  anchor  and  unfurl  her  sails  ; 
and  they  took  leave  of  their  friend  amid  the  shouts  of  the  seamen  and  all 
the  bustle  of  departure. 

Charles  was  highly  delighted  with  this  scene,  and  as  they  were  returning 
could  think  and  talk  of  nothing  else.  It  was  easy,  therefore,  for  his  father 
to  lead  him  into  the  following  train  of  discourse  : — 

After  Charles  had  been  warmly  expressing  his  admiration  of  the  grand 
sight  of  a  large  ship  completely  fitted  out  and  getting  under  sail,  "I  do 
not  wonder,"  said  his  father,  "  that  you  are  so  much  struck  with  it;  it  is, 
in  reality,  one  of  the  finest  spectacles  created  by  human  skill,  and  the 
noblest  triumph  of  art  over  untaught  nature.  Near  two  thousand  years 
ago,  when  Julius  Cesar  came  over  to  this  island,  he  found  the  natives  in 
possession  of  no  other  kind  of  vessel  than  a  sort  of  canoe,  formed  of 
wicker-work  covered  with  hides,  no  bigger  than  a  man  or  two  could  carry. 
But  the  largest  ship  in  Cesar's  fleet  was  not  more  superior  to  these,  than 
the  Indiaman  you  have  been  seeing  is  to  what  that  was.  Our  savage 
ancestors  ventured  only  to  paddle  along  the  rivers  and  coasts,  or  cross 
small  arms  of  the  sea  in  calm  weather  ;  and  Cesar  himself  would  have 
been  alarmed  to  be  a  few  days  out  of  sight  of  land.  But  the  ship  we  have 
just  left  is  going  by  itself  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  globe,  prepared  to 
encounter  the  tempestuous  winds  and  mountainous  waves  of  the  vast 
Southern  ocean,  and  to  find  its  way  to  its  destined  port,  though  many 
weeks  must  pass  with  nothing  in  view  but  sea  and  sky.  Now  what  do 
you  think  can  be  the  cause  of  this  prodigious  difference  in  the  powers  of 
man  at  one  period  and  another. 

Charles  was  silent. 

Fa.  Is  it  not  that  there  is  a  great  deal  more  knowledge  in  one  than  in 
the  other? 

Ch.  To  be  sure  it  is. 

Fa.  Would  it  not,  think  you,  be  as  impossible  for  any  number  of  men 
untaught,  by  their  utmost  efforts,  to  build  and  navigate  such  a  ship  as  we 
have  seen,  as  to  fly  through  the  air  ? 

Ch.  I  suppose  it  would. 


THE    SB*?  99 

Fa.  That  we  may  be  the  more  sensible  of  this,  let  us  consider  how 
many  arts  and  professions  are  necessary  for  this  purpose.  Come— you 
shall  begin  to  name  them,  and  if  you  forget  any,  I  will  put  you  in  mind 
What  is  the  first  ? 

Ch.  The  ship-carpenter,  J  think. 

Fa.  True — what  does  he  do? 

Ch.  He  builds  the  ship. 

Fa.  How  is  that  done  ? 

Ch.  By  fastening  the  planks  and  beams  together. 

Fa%  But  do  you  suppose  he  can  do  this  as  a  common  carpenter  makes 
a  box  or  set  of  shelves  ? 

Ch.  I  do  not  know. 

Fa.  Do  you  not  think  that  such  a  vast  bulk  requires  a  good  deal  ol 
contrivance  to  bring  it  into  shape,  and  fit  it  for  all  its  purposes  ? 

Ch.  Yes. 

Fa.  Some  ships,  you  have  heard,  sail  quicker  than  others — some  bear 
storms  better — some  carry  more  lading — some  draw  less  water — and  so 
on.    You  do  not  suppose  all  these  things  are  left  to  chance  ? 

Ch.  No. 

Fa.  In  order  to  produce  these  effects  with  certainty,  it  is  necessary  to 
study  proportions  very  exactly,  and  to  lay  down  an  accurate  scale  by 
mathematical  lines  and  figures  after  which  to  build  the  ship.  Much  has 
been  written  upon  this  subject,  and  nice  calculations  have  been  made  of 
the  resistance  a  ship  meets  with  in  making  way  through  the  water,  and 
the  best  means  of  overcoming  it ;  also  of  the  action  of  the  wind  on  the 
sails,  and  their  action  in  pushing  on  the  ship  by  means  of  the  masts.  All 
these  must  be  understood  by  a  perfect  master  of  ship-buildiug'. 

Ch.  But  I  think  I  know  ship-builders  who  have  never  had  an  education 
to  fit  them  for  understanding  these  things. 

Fa.  Very  likely ;  but  they  have  followed  by  rote  the  rules  laid  down 
by  others;  and  as  they  work  merely  by  imitation,  they  cannot  alter  or 
improve  as  occasion  may  require.  Then,  though  common  merchant- 
ships  are  trusted  to  such  builders,  yet,  in  constructing  men-of-war  and 
Indiamen  persons  of  science  are  always  employed.  The  French,  how- 
ever, attend  to  this  matter  more  than  we  do,  and,  in  consequence,  their 
ships  generally  sail  better  than  ours. 

Cli.  But  need  a  captain  of  a  ship  know  all  these  things  7 

Fa.  It  may  not  be  absolutely  necessary ;  yet  occasions  may  frequently 


100  EIGHTH    EVENING. 

arise  in  which  it  would  be  of  great  advantage  for  him  to  be  able  to  judge 
and  give  direction  in  these  matters.  But  suppose  the  ship  built — what 
comes  next  ? 

Ch.  I  think  she  must  be  rigged. 

Fa.  Well — who  are  employed  for  this  purpose  ? 

Ch.  Mastmakers,  ropemakers,  sailmakers,  and  I  know  not  how  many 
other  people. 

Fa.  These  are  all  mechanical  trades;  and  though  in  carrying  them  on 
much  ingenuity  has  been  applied  in  the  invention  of  machines  and  tools, 
yet  we  will  not  stop  to  consider  them.  Suppose  her,  then,  rigged — what 
next? 

Ch.  She  must  take  in  her  guns  and  powder. 

Fa.  Stop  there  and  reflect  how  many  arts  you  have  now  set  to  work. 
Gunpowder  is  one  of  the  greatest  inventions  of  modern  times,  and  what 
has  given  such  a  superiority  to  civilized  nations  over  the  barbarous  ?  An 
English  frigate,  surrounded  by  the  canoes  of  all  the  savages  in  the  world, 
would  easily  beat  them  off  by  means  of  her  guns ;  and  if  Cesar  were  to 
come  again  to  England  with  his  fleet,  a  battery  of  cannon  would  sink  all 
his  ships,  and  set  his  legions  a  swimming  in  the  sea.  But  the  making  of 
gunpowder,  and  the  casting  of  cannon,  are  arts  that  require  an  exact 
knowledge  of  the  science  of  Chymistry. 

Ch.  What  is  that? 

Fa.  It  comprehends  the  knowledge  of  all  the  properties  of  metals  and 
minerals,  salts,  sulphur,  oils,  and  gums,  and  of  the  action  of  fire,  and  water, 
and  air  upon  all  substances,  and  the  effects  of  mixing  different  things 
together.  Gunpowder  is  a  mixture  of  three  things  only ;  saltpetre  or  nitre, 
sulphur  or  brimstone,  and  charcoal.  But  who  could  have  thought  such  a 
wonderful  effect  would  have  been  produced  by  it? 

Ch.  Was  it  not  first  discovered  by  accident  ? 

Fa.  Yes ;  but  it  was  by  one  who  was  making  chymical  experiments, 
and  many  more  experiments  have  been  employed  to  bring  it  to  perfection. 

Ch.  But  need  a  captain  know  how  to  make  gunpowder  and  cannon  ? 

Fa.  It  is  not  necessary,  though  it  may  often  be  useful  to  him.  How- 
ever, it  is  quite  necessary  that  he  should  know  how  to  employ  them.  Now 
the  sciences  of  gunnery  and  fortification  depend  entirely  upon  mathemat- 
ical principles ;  for  by  these  are  calculated  the  direction  of  a  ball  through 
the  air.  the  distance  it  would  reach  to,  and  the  force  with  which  it  will 
strike  any  thing.     All  engineers,  therefore,  must  be  good  mathematicians. 


THE    SHIP.  101 

Ch.  But  I  think  have  heard  of  gunners  being  little  better  tnan  common 
men. 

Fa.  True — there  is  a  way  of  doing  that  business,  as  well  as  many 
others,  by  mere  practice :  and  an  uneducated  man  may  acquire  skill  in 
pointing  a  cannon,  as  well  as  in  shooting  with  a  common  gun.  But  this 
is  only  in  ordinary  cases,  and  an  abler  head  is  required  to  direct.  Well — 
now  suppose  your  ship  completely  fitted  out  for  sea,  and  the  wind  blow- 
ing fair ;  how  will  you  navigate  her  ? 

Ch.  I  would  spread  the  sails,  and  steer  by  the  rudder. 

Fa.  Very  well — but  how  would  you  find  your  way  to  the  port  you  are 
bound  for? 

Ch.  That  I  cannot  tell. 

Fa.  Nor,  perhaps,  can  I  make  you  exactly  comprehend  it ;  but  I  can 
show  you  enough  to  convince  you  that  it  is  an  affair  that  requires  much 
knowledge  and  early  study.  In  former  times,  when  a  vessel  left  the  sight 
of  land,  it  was  steered  by  observation  of  the  sun  by  day,  and  the  moon 
and  stars  by  night.  The  sun,  you  know,  rises  in  the  east,  and  sets  in  the 
west ;  and  at  noon,  in  these  parts  of  the  world,  it  is  exactly  south  of  us. 
These  points,  therefore,  may  be  found  out  when  the  sun  shines.  The 
moon  and  stars  vary :  however,  their  place  in  the  sky  may  be  known  by 
exact  observation.  Then,  there  is  one  star  that  always  points  to  the  north 
pole,  and  is  therefore  called  the  pole-star.  This  was  of  great  use  in  navi- 
gation, and  the  word  pole-star  is  often  used  by  the  poets  to  signify  a  sure 
guide.  Do  you  recollect  the  description  in  Homer's  Odyssey,  when  Ulys- 
ses sails  away  by  himself  from  the  island  of  Calypso — how  he  steers  by 
the  stars  ? 

Ch.  I  think  I  remember  the  lines  m  Pope's  translation. 

Fa.  Repeat  them,  then. 

Ch.  "  Placed  at  the  helm  he  sat,  and  mark'd  the  skies, 
Nor  closed  in  sleep  his  ever- watchful  eyes ; 
There  view'd  the  Pleiades,  and  the  Northern  Team, 
And  great  Orion's  more  effulgent  beam, 
To  which,  around  the  axle  of  the  sky, 
The  Bear  i evolving  points  his  golden  eye : 
Who  shines  exalted  on  th'  ethereal  plain, 
Nor  bathes  his  blazing  forehead  in  the  main. 

Fa.  Very  well ;  they  are  fine  lines,  indeed  !  You  see,  then,  how  long 
ago  sailors  thought  it  necessary  to  study  astronomy.     But  as  it  frequently 


; 

102  EIGHTH    EVENING 

happens,  especially  in  stormy  weather,  that  the  stars  are  not  to  De  seen, 
this  method  was  subject  to  great  uncertainty,  which  rendered  it  dangerous 
to  undertake  distant  voyages.  At  length,  near  500  years  since,  a  property 
was  discovered  in  a  mineral,  called  the  magnet  or  loadstone,  which 
removed  the  difficulty.  This  was,  its  polarity,  or  quality  of  always 
pointing  to  the  poles  of  the  earth,  that  is,  due  north  and  south.  This  it 
can  communicate  to  any  piece  of  iron ;  so  that  a  needle  well  rubbed  in  a 
particular  manner  by  a  loadstone,  and  then  balanced  upon  its  centre  so  as 
to  turn  round  freely,  will  always  point  to  the  north.  With  an  instrument 
called  a  mariner's  compass,  made  of  one  of  these  needles,  and  a  card 
marked  with  all  the  points — north,  south,  east,  west,  and  the  divisions 
between  these,  a  ship  may  be  steered  to  any  part  of  the  globe. 

Ch.  It  is  a  very  easy  matter,  then. 

Fa.  Not  quite  so  easy,  neither.  In  a  long  voyage,  cross  or  contrary 
winds  blow  a  ship  out  of  her  direct  course,  so  that  without  nice  calcula- 
tions both  of  the  straight  track  she  has  gone,  and  all  the  deviations  from 
it,  the  sailors  would  not  know  where  they  were,  nor  to  what  point  to 
steer.  It  is  also  frequently  necessary  to  take  observations,  as  they  call 
it ;  that  is,  to  observe  with  an  instrument  where  the  sun's  place  in  the 
sky  is  at  noon,  by  which  they  can  determine  the  latitude  they  are  in. 
Other  observations  are  necessary  to  determine  their  longitude.  What 
these  mean,  I  can  show  you  upon  the  globe.  It  is  enough  now  to  say 
that,  by  means  of  both  together,  they  can  tell  the  exact  spot  they  are  on 
at  any  time ;  and  then,  by  consulting  their  map,  and  setting  their  compass, 
they  can  steer  right  to  the  place  they  want.  But  all  this  requires  a  very 
exact  knowledge  of  astronomy,  the  use  of  the  globes,  mathematics,  and 
arithmetic,  which  you  may  suppose  is  not  to  be  acquired  without  much 
study.  A  great  number  of  curious  instruments  have  been  invented  to 
assist  in  these  operations ;  so  that  there  is  scarcely  any  matter  in  which 
so  much  art  and  science  have  been  employed  as  in  navigation  ;  and  none 
but  a  very  learned  and  civilized  nation  can  excel  in  it. 

Ch.  But  how  is  Tom  Hardy  to  do  ?  for  I  am  pretty  sure  he  does  not 
understand  any  of  these  things. 

Fa.  He  must  learn  them,  if  he  means  to  come  to  anything  in  his 
profession.  He  may,  indeed,  head  a  pressgang,  or  command  a  boat's 
crew  without  them ;  but  he  will  never  be  fit  to  take  charge  of  a  man-of- 
war,  or  even  a  merchant-ship. 

Ch.  However,  he  need  not  learn  Latin  and  Greek. 


THINGS    BY    THEIR    RIGHT    NAMES.  103 

Fa.  I  cannot  say,  indeed,  that  a  sailor  has  occasion  for  those  languages  ; 
but  a  knowledge  of  Latin  makes  it  much  easier  to  acquire  all  modern 
languages  j  and  I  hope  you  do  not  think  them  unnecessary  to  him. 

Ch.  I  did  not  know  they  were  of  much  importance. 

Fa.  No !  Do  you  think  that  one  who  may  probably  visit  most  countries 
in  Europe,  and  their  foreign  settlements,  should  be  able  to  converse  in  no 
other  language  than  his  own  9  If  the  knowledge  of  languages  is  not  useful 
to  him,  I  know  not  to  whom  it  is  so.  He  can  hardly  do  at  all  without 
knowing  some  ;  and  the  more  the  better. 

Ch.  Poor  Tom !  then  I  doubt  he  has  not  chosen  so  well  as  he  thinks. 

Fa.  I  doubt  so,  too. 

Here  ended  the  conversation.  They  soon  after  reached  home,  and 
Charles  did  not  forget  to  desire  his  father  to  show  him  on  the  globe  what 
longitude  and  latitude  meant. 


THINGS  BY  THEIR  RIGHT  NAMES. 

Charles.  Papa,  you  grow  very  lazy.  Last  winter  you  used  to  tell  us 
stories,,  and  now  you  never  tell  us  any  ;  and  we  are  all  got  round  the  fire 
quite  ready  to  hear  you.     Pray,  dear  papa,  let  us  have  a  very  pretty  one. 

Father.  With  all  my  heart— What  shall  it  be  ? 

Ch.  A  bloody  murder,  papa  ! 

Fa.  A  bloody  murder !  Well  then  —  once  upon  a  time  some  men 
dressed  all  alike.     .     .     . 

Ch.  With  black  crapes  over  their  faces  ? 

Fa.  No  ;  they  had  steel  caps  on . — having  crossed  a  dark  heath,  wound 
cautiously  along  the  skirts  of  a  deep  forest.    .     . 

Ch.  They  were  ill-looking  fellows,  I  dare  say  ? 

Fa.  I  cannot  say  so ;  on  the  contrary,  they  were  as  tall,  personable 
men  as  most  one  shall  see :  leaving  on  their  right  hand  an  old  ruined 
tower  on  the  hill.     .     .     . 

Ch.  At  midnight,  just  as  the  clock  struck  twelve  ;  was  it  not,  papa  7 

Fa.  No,  really  ;  it  was  on  a  fine  balmy  summer's  morning ;— they 
moved  forward,  one  behind  another.     .     . 

Ch.  As  still  as  death,  creeping  along  under  the  hedges  ? 

Fa.  On  the  contrary— they  walked  remarkably  upright;  and  so  far 
from  endeavouring  to  be  hushed  and  still,  they  made  a  loud  noise  as  thev 
came  along,  with  several  sorts  of  instruments. 


104  EIGHTH    EVENING. 

Ch.  But,  papa,  they  would  be  found  out  immediately. 

Fa.  They  did  not  seem  to  wish  to  conceal  themselves  :  on  the  contrary, 
they  gloried  in  what  they  were  about.  They  moved  forward,  I  say,  to  a 
large  plain,  where  stood  a  neat  pretty  village  which  they  set  on  fire. 

Ch.  Set  a  village  on  fire,  wicked  wretches  ! 

Fa.  And  while  it  was  burning  they  murdered — twenty  thousand  men. 

Ch.  O  fie  !  papa!  You  don't  intend  I  should  believe  this ;  I  thought 
all  along  you  were  making  up  a  tale,  as  you  often  do ;  but  you  shall  not 
catch  me  this  time.  What !  they  lay  still,  I  suppose,  and  let  these 
fellows  cut  their  throats  ? 

Fa.  No,  truly,  they  resisted  as  long  as  they  could. 

Ch.  How  should  these  men  kill  twenty  thousand  people,  pray  ? 

Fa.  Why  not  ?  the  murderers  were  thirty  thousand. 

Ch.  O,  now  I  have  found  you  out !  you  mean  a  battle. 

Fa.  Indeed  I  do.    I  do  not  know  any  murders  half  so  bloody 


EVENING  IX. 


THE  TRANSMIGRATIONS  OF  INDUR. 

At  the  time  when  fairies  and  genii  possessed  the  powers  which  they 
have  now  lost,  there  lived  in  the  country  of  the  Bramins,  a  man  named 
Indur,  who  was  distinguished,  not  only  for  that  gentleness  of  disposition 
and  humanity  towards  all  living  creatures,  which  are  so  much  cultivated 
among  those  people,  but  for  an  insatiable  curiosity  respecting  the  nature 
and  way  of  life  of  all  animals.  In  pursuit  of  knowledge  of  this  kind  he 
would  frequently  spend  the  night  among  lonely  rocks,  or  in  the  midst 
of  thick  forests  ;  and  there  under  shelter  of  a  hanging  cliff,  or  mounted 

5*  105 


10i>  NINTH    EVENING. 

upon  a  high  tree,  he  would  watch  the  motions  and  actions  of  all  the 
animals  that  seek  their  prey  in  the  night ;  and  remaining  in  the  same  spot 
till  the  break  of  day,  he  would  observe  this  tribe  of  creatures  retii  ng  to 
their  dens,  and  all  others  coming  forth  to  enjoy  the  beams  of  the  rising 
sun.  On  these  occasions,  if  he  saw  any  opportunity  of  exercising  his 
benevolence  toward  animals  in  distress,  he  never  failed  to  make  use  of 
it ;  and  many  times  rescued  the  small  bird  from  the  pitiless  hawk,  and 
the  lamb  or  kid  from  the  gripe  of  the  wolf  and  lynx.  One  day  as  he  was 
sitting  on  a  tree  in  the  forest,  a  little  frolicsome  monkey,  in  taking  a 
great  leap  from  one  bough  to  another,  chanced  to  miss  its  hold,  and  fell 
from  a  great  height  to  the  ground.  As  it  lay  there  unable  to  move,  Indur 
espied  a  large  venomous  serpent  advancing  to  make  the  poor  defenceless 
creature  his  prey.  He  immediately  descended  from  his  post,  and  taking 
the  little  monkey  in  his  arms,  ran  with  it  to  the  tree,  and  gently  placed  it 
upon  a  bough.  In  the  meantime,  the  enraged  serpent  pursuing  him, 
overtook  him  before  he  could  mount  the  tree,  and  bit  him  in  the  leg. 
Presently,  the  limb  began  to  swell,  and  the  effects  of  the  venom  became 
visible  over  Indur's  whole  frame.  He  grew  faint,  sick,  and  pale ;  and 
sinking  on  the  ground  was  sensible  that  his  last  moments  were  fast 
approaching.  As  thus  he  lay,  he  was  surprised  to  hear  a  human  voice 
from  the  tree;  and  looking  up,  he  beheld,  on  the  bow  where  he  had 
placed  the  monkey,  a  beautiful  woman,  who  thus  addressed  him : — "  Indur, 
I  am  truly  grieved  that  thy  kindness  to  me  should  have  been  the  cause  of 
thy  destruction.  Know  that,  in  the  form  of  the  poor  monkey,  it  was  the 
potent  fairy  Perizinda  to  whom  thou  gavest  succour.  Obliged  to  pass  a 
certain  number  of  days  every  year  under  the  shape  of  an  animal,  I  have 
chosen  this  form ;  and  though  not  mortal,  I  should  have  suffered  extreme 
agonies  from  the  bite  of  the  serpent,  hadst  thou  not  so  humanely  assisted 
me.  It  is  not  in  my  power  to  prevent  the  fatal  effect  of  the  poison ;  but  I 
am  able  to  grant  thee  any  wish  thou  shalt  form  respecting  the  future  state 
of  existence  to  which  thou  art  now  hastening.  Speak  then,  before  it  be 
too  late,  and  let  me  show  my  gratitude." — "  Great  Perizinda !"  replied 
Indur,  "  since  you  deign  so  bounteously  to  return  my  service,  this  is  the 
request  that  I  make ;  in  all  my  transmigrations  may  I  retain  a  rational 
soul,  with  the  memory  of  the  adventures  I  have  gone  through ;  and  when 
death  sets  me  free  from  one  body,  may  I  instantly  animate  another  in  the 
prime  of  its  powers  and  faculties,  without  passing  through  the  helpless 
state  of  infancy." — "It  is  granted,"  answered  the  fairy;  and  immediately, 


FRAN  SMI  G  RATIONS    OF    IKbUR.  107 

breaking  a  small  branch  from  the  tree,  and  breathing  on  it,  she  threw  it 
down  to  Indur,  and  bid  him  hold  it  fast  in  his  hand.  He  did  so,  and 
presently  expired. 

Instantly,  he  found  himself  in  a  green  valley,  hy  the  side  of  a  clear 
stream,  grazing  amid  a  herd  of  antelopes.  He  admired  his  elegant  shape, 
sleek,  spotted  skin,  and  polished  spiral  horns  ;  and  drank  with  delight  of 
the  cool  rivulet,  cropped  the  juicy  hero,  and  sported  with  his  companions. 
Soon  an  alarm  was  given  of  the  approach  of  an  enemy ;  and  they  all  set 
off  with  the  swiftness  of  the  wind,  to  the  neighbouring  immense  plains, 
wnere  they  were  presently  out  of  the  reach  of  injury.  Indur  was  highly 
delighted  with  the  ease  and  rapidity  of  his  motions ;  and  snuffing  the  keen 
air  of  the  desert,  bounded  away,  scarcely  deigning  to  touch  the  ground 
with  his  feet.  This  way  of  life  went  on  very  pleasantly  for  some  time, 
till  at  length  the  herd  was  one  morning  alarmed  with  noises  of  trumpets, 
drums,  and  loud  shouts  on  every  side.  They  started,  and  ran  first  to  the 
right,  then  to  the  left,  but  were  continually  driven  back  by  the  surrounding 
crowd,  which  now  appeared  to  he  a  whole  army  of  hunters,  with  the  king 
of  the  country,  and  all  his  nobles,  assembled  at  a  solemn  chase,  after  the 
manner  of  the  Eastern  people.  And  now  the  circle  began  to  close,  and 
numbers  of  affrighted  animals  of  various  kinds  thronged  together  in  the 
centre,  keeping  as  far  as  possible  from  the  dangers  that  approached  them 
from  all  quarters.  The  huntsmen  were  now  come  near  enough  to  reach 
their  game  with  their  arrows ;  and  the  prince  and  his  lords  shot  at  them 
as  they  passed  and  repassed,  killing  and  wounding  great  numbers.  Indur 
and  his  surviving  companions,  seeing  no  other  means  of  escape,  resolved 
to  make  a  bold  push  toward  that  part  of  the  ring  which  was  the  most 
weakly  guarded ;  and  though  many  perished  in  the  attempt,  yet  a  few, 
leaping  over  the  heads  of  the  people,  got  clear  away :  Indur  was  among 
the  number.  But  while  he  was  scouring  over  the  plain,  rejoicing  in  his 
good  fortune  and  conduct,  an  enemy  swifter  than  himself  overtook  him. 
This  was  a  falcon,  who,  let  loose  by  one  of  the  huntsmen,  dashed  like 
lightning  after  the  fugitives ;  and  alighting  upon  the  head  of  Indur,  began 
to  tear  his  eyes  with  his  beak,  and  flap  his  wings  over  his  face.  Indur, 
terrified  and  blinded,  knew  not  which  way  he  went;  and  instead  oi 
proceeding  straight-forward,  turned  round  and  came  again  toward  the 
hunters.  One  of  these,  riding  full  speed  with  a  javelin  in  his  hand, 
came  up  to  him,  and  ran  the  weapon  into  his  side.  He  fell  down,  and 
with  repeated  wounds  was  soon  despatched. 


103  NINTH    EVENING. 

When  the  struggle  of  death  was  over,  Indur  was  equally  surprised  and 
pleased  on  rinding  himself  soaring  high  in  the  air,  as  one  of  a  flight  of 
wild  geese,  in  their  annual  migration  to  breed  in  the  arctic  regions. 
With  vast  delight  he  sprung  forward  on  easy  wing  through  the  immense 
fields  of  air,  and  surveyed  beneath  him  extensive  tracts  of  earth  perpetu- 
ally varying  with  plains,  mountains,  rivers,  lakes,  and  woods.  At  the 
approach  of  night  the  flock  lighted  on  the  ground,  and  fed  on  the  green 
corn  or  grass  5  and  at  daybreak  they  were  again  on  the  wing,  arranged  in 
regular  wedge-like  body,  with  an  experienced  leader  at  their  head.  Thus 
for  many  days  they  continued  their  journey,  passing  over  countries  inhab- 
ited by  various  nations,  till  at  length  they  arrived  in  the  remotest  part  ol 
Lapland,  and  settled  in  a  wide  marshy  lake,  filled  with  numerous  reedy 
islands,  and  surrounded  on  all  sides  with  dark  forests  of  pine  and  birch. 
Here,  in  perfect  security  from  man  and  hurtful  animals,  they  followed 
the  great  business  of  breeding  and  providing  for  their  young,  living 
plentifully  upon  the  insects  and  aquatic  reptiles  that  abounded  in  this 
sheltered  spot.  Indur  with  great  pleasure  exercised  his  various  powers  of 
swimming,  diving,  and  flying;  sailing  round  the  islands,  penetrating  into 
every  creek  and  bay,  and  visiting  the  deepest  recesses  of  the  woods.  He 
survt/ed  with  astonishment  the  sun,  instead  of  rising  and  setting,  making 
a  complete  circle  in  the  heavens,  and  cheering  the  earth  with  a  perpetual 
day.  Here  he  met  with  innumerable  tribes  of  kindred  birds  varying  in 
size,  plumage,  and  voice,  but  all  passing  their  time  in  a  similar  manner, 
and  furnished  with  the  same  powers  for  providing  food  and  a  safe  retreat 
for  themselves  and  their  young.  The  whole  lake  was  covered  with 
parties  fishing  or  sporting,  and  resounded  with  their  loud  cries ;  while  the 
islands  were  filled  with  their  nests,  and  new  broods  of  young  were  con- 
tinually coming  forth  and  launching  upon  the  surface  of  the  waters.  One 
day,  Indur's  curiosity  having  led  him  at  a  distance  from  his  companions 
to  the  woody  border  of  the  lake,  he  was  near  paying  dear  for  his  heed- 
lessness ;  for  a  fox,  that  lay  in  wait  among  the  bushes,  sprung  upon  him, 
and  it  was  with  the  utmost  difficulty  that  by  a  strong  exertion  he  broke 
from  his  hold,  not  without  the  loss  of  some  feathers. 

Summer  now  drawing  to  an  end,  the  vast  congregation  of  water-fowl 
begun  to  break  up  ;  and  large  bodies  of  them  daily  took  their  way  south- 
ward, to  pass  the  winter  in  climates  where  the  waters  are  never  so 
frozen  as  to  become  uninhabitable  by  the  feathered  race.  The  wild  geese, 
to  whom  Indur  belonged,  proceeded  with  their  young  ones,  by  long  daily 


TRANSMIGRATIONS    OF    INDUR.  109 

journeys  across  Sweden,  the  Baltic  sea,  Poland  and  Turkey,  to  Lesser 
Asia,  and  finished  their  journey  at  the  celebrated  plains  on  the  banks  of 
the  Cayster,  a  noted  resort  for  their  species  ever  since  the  age  of  Homer, 
who  in  some  very  beautiful  verses  has  described  the  manners  and  actions 
of  the  various  tribes  of  aquatic  birds  in  that  favourite  spot.*  Here  they 
soon  recruited  from  the  fatigue  of  their  march,  and  enjoyed  themselves  in 
the  delicious  climate  till  winter.  This  season,  though  here  extremely 
mild,  yet  making  the  means  of  sustenance  somewhat  scarce,  they  were 
obliged  to  make  foraging  excursions  to  the  cultivated  lands  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood. Having  committed  great  depredations  upon  a  fine  field  of  young 
wheat,  the  owner  spread  a  net  on  the  ground,  in  which  Indur,  with  several 
of  his  companions,  had  the  misfortune  to  be  caught.  No  mercy  was  shown 
them,  but  as  they  were  taken  out  one  by  one,  their  necks  were  all  broken. 
Indur  was  not  immediately  sensible  of  the  next  change  he  underwent, 
which  was  into  a  dormouse,  fast  asleep  into  a  hole  at  the  foot  of  a  bush. 
As  it  was  in  a  country  where  the  winter  was  pretty  severe,  he  did  not 
awake  for  some  weeks  -,  when  a  thaw  having  taken  place,  and  the  sun 
beginning  to  warm  the  earth,  he  unrolled  himself  one  day,  stretched, 
opened  his  eyes,  and  not  being  able  to  make  out  where  he  was,  he  roused 
a  female  companion  whom  he  found  by  his  side.  When  she  was 
sufficiently  awakened,  and  they  both  began  to  feel  hungry,  she  led  the 
way  to  a  magazine  of  nuts  and  acorns,  where  they  made  a  comfortable 
meal,  and  soon  fell  asleep  again.  This  nap  having  lasted  a  few  days, 
they  awaked  a  second  time,  and  having  eaten,  they  ventured  to  crawl  to 
the  mouth  of  their  hole,  where,  pulling  away  some  withered  grass  and 
leaves,  they  peeped  out  into  the  open  air.  After  taking  a  turn  or  two 
in  the  sun,  they  grew  chill,  and  went  down  again,^  stopping  up  the 
entrance  after  them.  The  cold  weather  returning,  they  took  another 
long  nap,  till,  at  length,  spring  being  fairly  set  in,  they  roused  in  earnest, 
and  began  to  make  daily  excursions  abroad.  Their  winter-stock  of 
provisions  being  now  exhausted,  they  were  for  some  time  reduced  to 
great  straits,  and  obliged  to  dig  for  roots  and  pig-nuts.     Their  fare  was 

*  Not  less  their  number  than  th'  embodied  cranes, 
Or  milk-white  swans  on  Asia's  wat'ry  plains, 
That  o'er  the  windings  of  Cayster' s  springs 
Stretch  their  long  necks,  and  clap  their  rustling  wings 
Now  tower  aloft,  and  course  in  airy  rounds  ; 
Now  light  with  noise ;  with  noise  the  field  resounds.— Pope's  Homer. 


110  NINTH    EVENING. 

mended  as  the  season  advanced,  and  they  made  a  nest  near  the  bottom 
of  a  tree,  where  they  brought  up  a  young  family.  They  never  ranged 
far  from  home,  nor  ascended  the  higher  branches  of  the  tree,  and  passed 
great  part  of  their  time  in  sleep,  even  during  the  midst  of  summer.  When 
autumn  came,  they  were  busily  employed  in  collecting  the  nuts,  acorns, 
and  other  dry  fruits  that  fell  from  the  trees,  and  laying  them  up  in  their 
storehouses  underground.  One  day,  as  Indur  was  thus  closely  engaged  at 
some  distance  from  his  dwelling,  he  was  seized  by  a  wildcat,  who,  after 
tormenting  him  for  a  time,  gave  him  a  gripe,  and  put  him  out  of  his  pain. 
From  one  of  the  smallest  and  most  defenceless  of  animals,  Indur  found 
himself  instantly  changed  into  a  majestic  elephant,  in  a  lofty  forest  in 
the  isle  of  Ceylon.  Elated  with  this  wonderful  advancement  in  the  scale 
of  creation,  he  stalked  along  with  conscious  dignity,  and  surveyed  with 
pleasing  wonder  his  own  form  and  that  of  his  companions,  together  with 
the  rich  scenery  of  the  ever-verdant  woods,  which  perfumed  the  air  with 
their  spicy  odour,  and  lifted  their  tall  heads  to  the  clouds.  Here,  fearing 
no  injury,  and  not  desirous  to  do  any,  the  gigantic  herd  roamed  at  large, 
feeding  on  the  green  branches  which  they  tore  down  with  their  trunks, 
and  bathing  in  deep  rivers  during  the  heat  of  the  day  ;  and,  reposing  in 
the  depths  of  the  forests,  reclined  against  the  massy  trunks  of  trees  by 
night.  It  was  long  before  Indur  met  with  any  adventure  that  could  lead 
him  to  doubt  his  security.  But,  one  day,  having  penetrated  into  a  close 
entangled  thicket,  he  espied,  lurking  under  the  thick  covert,  a  grim  tiger, 
whose  eyes  flashed  rage  and  fury.  Though  the  tiger  was  one  of  the 
largest  of  his  species,  yet  his  bulk  was  trifling  compared  with  that  of  an 
elephant,  a  single  foot  of  which  seemed  sufficient  to  crush  him ;  yet  the 
fierceness  and  cruelty  of  his  looks,  his  angry  growl,  and  grinning  teeth, 
struck  some  terror  into  Indur.  There  was  little  time,  however,  for 
reflection:  for  when  Indur  had  advanced  a  single  step,  the  tiger,  setting 
up  a  roar,  sprung  to  meet  him,  attempting  to  seize  his  lifted  trunk.  Indur 
was  dexterous  enough  to  receive  him  upon  one  of  his  tusks,  and  exerting 
all  his  strength,  threw  the  tiger  to  a  great  distance.  He  was  somewhat 
stunned  by  the  fall,  but  recovering,  renewed  the  assault  with  redoubled 
fury.  Indur  again,  and  a  third  time,  threw  him  off;  after  which  the 
tiger,  turning  about,  bounded  away  into  the  midst  of  the  thicket.  Indur 
drew  back,  and  rejoined  his  companions,  with  some  abatement  in  the 
confidence  he  had  placed  in  his  size  and  strength,  which  had  not 
prevented  him  from  undergoing  so  dangerous  an  attack. 


TRANSMIGRATIONS    OF    INDUR.  Ill 

Soon  after,  he  joined  the  rest  of  the  herd,  in  an  expedition  beyond  the 
bounds  of  the  forest,  to  make  depredations  on  some  fields  of  maize.  They 
committed  great  havoc,  devouring  part,  but  tearing  up  and  trampling 
down  much  more ;  when  the  inhabitants  taking  the  alarm,  assembled  in 
great  numbers,  and  with  fierce  shouts  and  flaming  brands  drove  them 
back  to  the  woods.  Not  contented  with  this,  they  were  resolved  to  make 
them  pay  for  the  mischief  they  had  done,  by  taking  some  prisoners.  For 
this  purpose  they  enclosed  a  large  space  among  the  trees  with  strong 
posts  and  stakes,  bringing  it  to  a  narrower  and  narrower  compass,  and 
ending  at  last  in  a  passage  only  capable  of  admitting  one  elephant  at  a 
time.  This  was  divided  into  several  apartments,  by  strong  cross-bars, 
which  would  lift  up  and  down.  They  then  sent  out  some  tame  female 
elephants  bred  to  the  business,  who  approaching  the  herd  of  wild  ones, 
inveigled  the  males  to  follow  them  toward  the  enclosures.  Indur  was 
among  the  first  who  was  decoyed  by  their  artifices ;  and  with  some  others 
following  heedlessly,  he  got  into  the  narrowest  part  of  the  enclosure, 
opposite  to  the  passage.  Here  they  stood  awhile,  doubting  whether  they 
should  go  farther.  But  the  females  leading  the  way,  and  uttering  their 
cry  of  invitation,  they  ventured  at  length  to  follow.  When  a  sufficient 
number  was  in  the  passage,  the  bars  were  let  down  by  men  placed  for 
for  that  purpose,  and  the  elephants  were  fairly  caught  in  a  trap.  As  soon 
as  they  were  sensible  of  their  situation,  they  fell  into  a  fit  of  rage,  and 
with  all  their  efforts  endeavoured  to  break  through.  But  the  hunters 
throwing  nooses  over  them,  bound  them  fast  with  strong  ropes  and  chains 
to  the  post  on  each  side,  and  thus  kept  them  without  food  or  sleep  for  three 
days ;  when  being  exhausted  with  hunger  and  fatigue,  they  gave  signs  of 
sufficient  tameness.  They  were  now  let  out  one  by  one,  and  bound  each 
of  them  to  two  large  tame  elephants  with  riders  on  their  backs,  and  thus 
without  resistance  were  led  away  close  prisoners.  They  were  then  put 
into  separate  stables,  and  by  proper  discipline,  were  presently  rendered 
quite  tame  and  gentle. 

Not  long  after,  Indur,  with  five  more,  was  sent  over  from  Ceylon  to  the 
continent  of  India,  and  sold  to  one  of  the  princes  of  the  country.  He  was 
now  trained  to  all  the  services  elephants  are  there  employed  in  ;  which 
were,  to  carry  people  on  his  back  in  a  kind  of  sedan,  or  litter,  to  draw 
cannon,  ships,  and  other  great  weights,  to  kneel  and  rise  at  command, 
make  obeisance  to  his  lord,  and  perfi  m  all  the  motions  and  attitudes  he 
was  ordered.      Thus  he  lived  a  long    :me  well  fed  and  caressed,  clothed 


112  NINTH    EVENING. 

in  costly  trappings  on  days  of  ceremony,  and  contributing  to  the  pomp  oi 
Eastern  royalty.  At  length,  a  war  broke  out,  and  Indur  came  to  be 
employed  in  a  different  scene.  After  proper  training  he  was  marched 
with  a  number  of  his  fellows,  into  the  field,  bearing  on  his  back  a  small 
wooden  tower,  in  which  were  placed  some  soldiers  with  a  small  field- 
piece.  They  soon  came  in  sight  of  the  enemy,  and  both  sides  were 
drawn  up  for  battle.  Indur  and  the  rest  were  urged  forward  by  their  leaders 
wondering  at  the  same  time  at  the  scene  in  which  they  were  engaged, 
so  contrary  to  their  nature  and  manners.  Presently,  all  was  involved  in 
smoke  and  fire.  The  elephants  advancing,  soon  put  to  flight  those  who 
were  drawn  up  before  them ;  but  their  career  was  stopped  by  a  battery  of 
cannon,  which  played  furiously  against  them.  Their  vast  bodies  offered 
a  fair  mark  to  the  balls,  which  presently  struck  down  some,  and  wounded 
others.  Indur  received  a  shot  on  one  of  his  tusks,  which  broke  it,  and 
put  him  to  such  pain  and  affright,  that,  turning  about,  he  ran  with  all 
speed  over  the  plain ;  and  falling  in  with  a  body  of  their  own  infantry, 
he  burst  through,  trampling  down  whole  ranks,  and  filling  them  with  terror 
and  confusion.  His  leader  having  now  lost  all  command  over  him,  and 
finding  him  hurtful  to  his  own  party,  applied  the  sharp  instrument  he 
carried  to  the  nape  of  his  neck,  and  driving  it  in  with  all  his  force,  pierced 
his  spinal  marrow,  so  that  he  fell  lifeless  to  the  ground. 

In  the  next  stage  of  his  existence,  Indur,  to  his  great  surprise,  found 
even  the  vast  bulk  of  the  elephant  prodigiously  exceeded ;  for  he  was 
now  a  whale  of  the  largest  species,  rolling  in  the  midst  of  the  arctic  seas. 
As  he  darted  along,  the  lash  of  his  tail  made  whirlpools  in  the  mighty 
deep.  When  he  opened  his  immense  jaws  he  drew  in  a  flood  of  brine, 
which,  on  rising  to  the  surface,  he  spouted  out  again  in  a  rushing  fountain, 
that  rose  high  in  the  air  with  the  noise  of  a  mighty  cataract.  All  the 
other  inhabitants  of  the  ocean  seemed  as  nothing  to  him.  He  swallowed, 
almost  without  knowing  it,  whole  shoals  of  the  smaller  kinds ;  and  the 
larger  swiftly  turned  aside  at  his  approach.  "  Now,"  he  cried  to  himself, 
"  whatever  other  evils  await  me,  I  am  certainly  secure  from  the  molestation 
of  other  animals ;  for  what  is  the  creature  that  can  dare  to  cope  with  me, 
or  measure  his  strength  with  mine  V*  Having  said  this,  he  saw  swimming 
near  him  a  fish  not  a  quarter  of  his  length,  armed  with  a  dreadful  row  of 
teeth.  This  was  a  grampus,  which  directly  flying  upon  Indur,  fastened 
on  him,  and  made  his  great  teeth  meet  in  his  flesh.  Indur  roared  with 
pain,  and  lashed  the  sea,  till  it  was  all  in  a  foam,  but  could  neither  reach 


TRANSMIGRATIONS    OF    INDUR.  113 

nor  shake  off  his  cruel  foe.  He  rolled  over  and  over,  rose  and  sunk,  and 
exerted  all  his  boasted  strength ;  but  to  no  purpose.  At  length,  the  grampus 
quitted  his  hold,  and  left  him  not  a  little  mortified  with  the  adventure. 
This  was,  however,  forgotten,  and  Indur  received  pleasure  from  his  new 
situation,  as  he  roamed  through  the  boundless  fields  of  ocean,  now  diving 
to  its  very  bottom,  now  shooting  swiftly  to  its  surface,  and  sporting  with 
his  companions  in  unwieldly  gambols.  Having  chosen  a  mate,  he  took 
his  course  with  her  southward,  and,  in  due  time,  brought  up  two  young 
ones,  of  whom  he  was  extremely  fond.  The  summer  season  being 
arrived,  he  more  frequently  than  usual  rose  to  the  surface,  and  basking 
in  the  sunbeams,  floated  unmoved  with  a  large  part  of  his  huge  body 
above  the  waves.  As  he  was  thus  one  day  enjoying  a  profound  sleep, 
he  was  awakened  by  a  sharp  instrument  penetrating  deep  into  his  back. 
Instantly,  he  sprung  away  with  the  swiftness  of  lightning,  and  feeling 
the  weapon  still  sticking,  he  dived  into  the  recesses  of  the  deep,  and 
stayed  there  till  want  of  air  obliged  him  to  ascend  to  the  surface.  Here 
another  harpoon  was  plunged  into  him,  the  smart  of  which  again  made 
him  fly  from  his  unseen  foes ;  but,  after  a  shorter  course,  he  was  again 
compelled  to  rise,  much  weakened  by  the  loss  of  blood,  which,  gushing 
in  a  torrent,  tinged  the  waters  as  he  passed.  Another  wound  was  inflicted, 
which  soon  brought  him  almost  lifeless  to  the  surface ;  and  the  line 
fastened  to  the  first  harpoon  being  now  pulled  in,  this  enormous  creature 
was  brought,  an  unresisting  prey,  to  the  side  of  a  ship,  where  he  was 
soon  quietly  despatched,  and  then  cut  to  pieces. 

The  soul  of  this  huge  carcass  had  next  a  much  narrower  lodging,  for 
Indur  was  changed  into  a  bee,  which,  with  a  great  multitude  of  its  young 
companions,  was  on  flight  in  search  of  a  new  settlement,  their  parents 
having  driven  them  out  of  the  hive,  which  was  unable  to  contain  them 
all.  After  a  rambling  excursion,  the  queen,  by  whom-  all  their  motions 
were  directed,  settled  on  the  branch  of  a  lofty  tree.  They  all  immediately 
clustered  round  her,  and  soon  formed  a  large  black  bunch,  depending 
from  the  bough.  A  man  presently  planting  a  ladder,  ascended  with  a 
beehive,  and  swept  them  in.  After  they  were  quietly  settled  in  their  new 
habitation,  they  were  placed  on  a  stand  in  the  garden  along  with  some 
other  colonies,  and  left  to  begin  their  labours.  Every  fine  morning,  as 
soon  as  the  sun  was  up,  the  greatest  part  of  them  sallied  forth,  and  roamed 
over  the  garden  and  the  neighbouring  fields  in  search  of  fresh  and  fragrant 
flowers.  They  first  collected  a  quantity  of  gluy  matter,  with  which 
they  lined  all  the  inside  of  their  house.     Then  they  brought  wax,  and 


114  NINTH    EVENING. 

began  to  make  their  cells,  building  them  with  the  utmost  regularity, 
though  it  was  their  first  attempt,  and  they  had  no  teacher.  As  fast  as 
they  were  built,  some  were  filled  with  liquid  honey,  gathered  from  the 
nectaries  of  flowers ;  and  as  they  filled  the  cells,  they  sealed  them  up 
with  a  thin  covering  of  wax.  In  other  cells,  the  queen-bee  deposited  her 
eggs,  which  were  to  supply  a  new  progeny  for  the  ensuing  year.  Nothing 
could  be  a  more  pleasing  sight  than  to  behold  on  a  sunshiny  day  the 
insects  continually  going  forth  to  their  labour,  while  others  were  as  con- 
stantly arriving  at  the  mouth  of  the  hole,  either  with  yellow  balls  of  wax 
under  their  thighs,  or  full  of  the  honey  which  they  had  drawn  in  with 
their  trunks  for  the  purpose  of  spouting  it  out  into  the  cells  of  the  honey- 
comb. Indur  felt  much  delight  in  this  useful  and  active  way  of  life,  and 
was  always  one  of  the  first  abroad  at  the  dawn,  and  latest  home  in 
the  evening.  On  rainy  and  foggy  days  they  stayed  at  home,  and  employed 
themselves  in  finishing  their  cells,  and  all  the  necessary  work  within 
doors ;  and  Indur,  though  endued  with  human  reason,  could  not  but  admire 
the  readiness  with  which  he  and  the  rest  formed  the  most  regular  plans  of 
work,  all  corresponding  in  design  and  execution,  guided  by  instinct  alone. 

The  end  of  autumn  now  approaching,  the  bees  had  filled  their  combs 
with  honey ;  and  nothing  more  being  to  be  got  abroad,  they  stayed  within 
doors,  passing  most  of  their  time  in  sleep.  They  ate  a  little  of  their 
store,  but  with  great  frugality ;  and  all  their  meals  were  made  in  public, 
none  daring  to  make  free  with  the  common  stock  by  himself.  The  owner 
of  the  hives  now  came  and  took  them  one  by  one  into  his  hand,  that 
he  might  judge  by  the  weight  whether  or  no  they  were  full  of  honey. 
That  in  which  Indur  was,  proved  to  be  one  bf  the  heaviest;  and  it  was 
therefore  resolved  to  take  the  contents.  For  this  purpose,  one  cold  night, 
when  the  bees  were  all  fast  asleep,  the  hive  was  placed  over  a  hole  in 
the  ground,  in  which  were  put  brimstone  matches  set  on  fire.  The  fumes 
rose  into  the  hive,  and  soon  suffocated  great  part  of  the  bees,  and  stupified 
the  rest,  so  that  they  all  fell  from  the  combs.  Indur  was  among  the  dead. 

He  soon  revived  in  the  form  of  a  young  rabbit  in  a  spacious  warren. 
This  was  like  a  populous  town ;  being  everywhere  hollowed  by  burrows 
running  deep  under  ground,  and  each  inhabited  by  one  or  more  families. 
In  the  evening  the  warren  was  covered  with  a  vast  number  of  rabbits, 
old  and  young,  some  feeding,  others  frisking  about,  and  pursuing  one 
another  in  wanton  sport.  At  the  least  alarm,  they  all  hurried  into  the 
holes  nearest  them,  and  were  in  an  instant  safe  from  enemies,  who  either 
could  not  follow  them  at  all,  or,  if  they  did,  were  foiled  in  the  chase  by 


TRANSMIGRATIONS    OF    INDUR.  .15 

the  numerous  ways  and  turnings  in  the  earth,  communicating  with  each 
other,  so  as  to  afford  easy  means  of  escape.  Indur  delighted  much  in  this 
secure  and  social  life ;  and  taking  a  mate,  was  soon  the  father  of  a  numerous 
offspring.  Several  of  the  little  ones,  however,  not  being  sufficiently  careful, 
fell  a  prey  either  to  hawks  and  crows,  continually  hovering  over  the 
warren,  or  to  cats,  foxes,  and  other  wild  quadrupeds,  who  used  every  art 
to  catch  them  at  a  distance  from  their  holes.  Indur  himself  ran  several 
hazards.  He  was  once  very  near  being  caught  by  a  little  dog  trained  for 
the  purpose,  who  kept  playing  round  for  a  considerable  time,  not  seeming 
to  attend  to  the  rabbits,  till  having  got  near,  he  all  at  once  darted  into  the 
midst  of  them.  Another  time  he  received  some  shot  from  a  sportsman 
who  lay  on  the  watch  behind  a  hedge  adjoining  the  warren. 

The  number  of  rabbits  here  was  so  great,  that  a  hard  winter  coming 
on,  which  killed  most  of  the  vegetables,  or  buried  them  deep  under  the 
snow,  they  were  reduced  to  great  straits,  and  many  were  famished  to 
death.  Some  turnips  and  hay,  however,  which  were  laid  for  them, 
preserved  the  greater  part.  The  approach  of  spring  renewed  their  sport 
and  pleasure ;  and  Indur  was  made  the  father  of  another  family.  One 
night,  however,  was  fatal  to  them  all.  As  they  were  sleeping,  they  were 
alarmed  by  the  attack  of  a  ferret ;  and  running  with  great  speed  to  the 
mouth  of  their  burrow  to  escape  it,  they  were  all  caught  in  nets  placed 
over  their  holes.  Indur,  with  the  rest,  was  despatched  by  a  blow  on  the 
back  of  the  neck,  and  his  body  was  sent  to  the  nearest  market-town. 

His  next  change  was  into  a  young  mastiff,  brought  up  in  a  farmyard, 
Having  nearly  acquired  his  full  size,  he  was  sent  as  a  present  to  a 
gentleman  in  the  neighbourhood,  who  wanted  a  faithful  guard  for  his 
house  and  grounds.  Indur  presently  attached  himself  to  his  master  and 
all  his  family,  and  showed  every  mark  of  a  noble  and  generous  nature. 
Though  fierce  as  a  lion  whenever  he  thought  the  persons  or  property  of 
his  friends  invaded,  he  was  as  gentle  as  a  Jamb  at  other  times,  and  would 
patiently  suffer  any  kind  of  freedoms  from  those  he  loved.  He  permitted 
the  children  of  the  house  to  lug  him  about,  ride  on  his  back,  and  use  him 
as  roughly  as  their  little  hands  were  capable  of;  never,  even  when  hurt, 
showing  any  displeasure  further  than  by  a  low  growl.  He  was  extremely 
indulgent  to  all  the  other  animals  of  his  species  in  the  yard ;  and  when 
abroad  would  treat  the  impertinent  barking  of  little  dogs  with  silent 
contempt.  Once,  indeed,  being  provoked  beyond  bearing,  not  only  by 
the  noise,  but  by  the  snaps  of  a  malicious  whelp,  he  suddenly  seized  him 
in  his  open  mouth  ;  but  when  the  bystanders  thought  that  the  poor  cur  was 


116  NINTH    EVENING. 

going  instantly  to  be  destroyed,  they  were  equally  diverted  and  pleased 
at  seeing  Indur  go  to  the  side  of  a  muddy  ditch,  and  drop  his  antagonist 
unhurt  into  the  middle  of  it. 

He  had,  however,  more  serious  conflicts  frequently  to  sustain.  He 
was  accustomed  to  attend  the  servant  on  market-days  to  the  neighbouring 
town,  when  it  was  his  office  to  guard  the  provision  cart,  while  the  man 
was  making  his  purchases  in  the  shops.  On  these  occasions  the  boldest 
dogs  in  the  street  would  sometimes  make  an  onset  in  a  body  ;  and  while 
some  of  them  were  engaging  Indur,  others  would  be  mounting  the  cart, 
and  pulling  down  the  meat-baskets.  Indur  had  much  ado  to  defend 
himself  and  the  baggage,  too ;  however,  he  never  failed  to  make  some  of 
the  assailants  pay  dearly  for  their  impudence ;  and  by  his  loud  barking, 
he  summoned  his  human  fellow-servant  to  his  assistance,  in  time  to 
prevent  their  depredations. 

At  length,  his  courage  was  exerted  on  the  most  important  service  to 
which  it  could  be  applied.  His  master  returning  home  late  one  evening, 
was  attacked  near  his  own  house  by  three  armed  ruffians.  Indur  heard 
his  voice  calling  for  help,  and  instantly  flew  to  his  relief.  He  seized  one 
of  the  villains  by  the  throat,  brought  him  to  the  ground,  and  presently 
disabled  him.  The  master,  in  the  meantime,  was  keeping  off  the  other 
two  with  a  large  stick,  but  had  received  several  wounds  with  a  cutlass ; 
and  one  of  the  men  had  presented  a  pistol,  and  was  just  on  the  point  of 
firing.  At  this  moment,  Indur,  leaving  his  vanquished  foe  on  the  ground, 
rushed  forward,  and  seizing  the  man's  arm,  made  him  drop  the  pistol. 
The  master  took  it  up ;  on  which  the  other  robber  fled.  He  now 
advanced  to  him  with  whom  Indur  was  engaged,  and  fired  the  pistol  at 
him.  The  ball  broke  the  man's  arm,  and  thence  entered  the  body  of 
Indur,  and  mortally  wounded  him.  He  fell,  but  had  the  satisfaction  of 
seeing  his  master  remain  lord  of  the  field  ;  and  the  servants  now  coming 
up,  made  prisoners  of  the  two  wounded  robbers.  The  master  threw 
himself  by  the  side  of  Indur,  and  expressed  the  warmest  concern  at  the 
accident  which  had  made  him  the  cause  of  death  of  the  faithful  animal 
that  had  preserved  his  life.     Indur  died  licking  his  hand. 

So  generous  a  nature  was  now  no  longer  to  be  annexed  to  a  brutal 
form.  Indur  awaking  as  it  were  from  a  trance,  found  himself  again  in  the 
happy  region  he  had  formerly  inhabited,  and  recommenced  the  innocent 
life  of  a  Bramin.  He  cherished  the  memory  of  his  transmigrations,  and 
handed  them  down  to  posterity,  in  a  relation  from  which  the  preceding 
account  has  been  extracted  for  the  amusement  of  our  young  readers. 


EVENING  X. 


THE  SWALLOW  AND  TORTOISE. 

A  tortoise  in  a  garden's  bound, 
An  ancient  inmate  of  the  place, 
Had  left  his  winter-quarters  underground, 
And,  with  a  sober  pace, 
Was  crawling  o'er  a  sunny  bed, 
And  thrusting  from  his  shell  his  pretty  toad-like  head. 

Just  come  from  sea,  a  swallow, 
As  to  and  fro  he  nimbly  flew. 


117 


118  TENTH    EVENING. 

Beat  our  old  racer  hollow : 
At  length,  he  stopped  direct  in  view, 
And  said,  "Acquaintance  brisk  and  gay, 
How  have  you  fared  this  many  a  day  V1 

"  Thank  you,"  replied  the  close  housekeeper, 
"  Since  you  and  I  last  autumn  parted, 
1 5ve  been  a  precious  sleeper, 
And  never  stirred  nor  started, 
But  in  my  hole  I  lay  as  snug 
As  fleas  within  a  *ug  ; 
Nor  did  I  put  my  head  abroad 
Till  all  the  snow  and  ice  were  thawed." 

"  But  I,"  rejoined  the  bird, 
"  Who  love  cold  weather  just  as  well  as  you, 
Soon  as  the  warning  blasts  I  heard. 
Away  I  flew, 

And  mounting  in  the  wind, 
Left  gloomy  winter  far  behind. 
Directed  by  the  mid-day  sun, 
O'er  sea  and  land  my  venturous  course  I  steered, 
Nor  was  my  distant  journey  done 
Till  Afric's  verdant  coast  appeared. 
There,  all  the  season  long, 
I  chased  gay  butterflies  and  gnats, 
And  gave  my  negro  friends  a  morning  song, 
And  housed  at  night  among  the  bats. 
Then,  at  the  call  of  spring, 
I  northward  turned  my  wing, 
And  here  again  her  joyous  message  bring." 

"  Lord  !  what  a  deal  of  heedless  ranging , 
Returned  the  reptile  grave, 
"  For  ever  hurrying,  bustling,  changing, 
As  if  it  were  your  life  to  save ! 
Why  need  you  visit  foreign  nations  ? 
Rather  like  me,  and  some  of  your  relations, 
Take  out  a  pleasant  half-year's  nap, 
Secure  from  trouble  and  mishap." 

1 A  pleasant  nap,  indeed  !"  replied  the  swallow 


THE    GRASS-TRIBE.  U9 

"  When  I  can  neither  see  nor  fly, 

The  bright  example  I  may  follow 

'  Till  then,  in  truth,  not  I ! 

I  measure  time  by  its  employment, 

And  only  value  life  for  life's  enjoyment- 

As  good  be  buried  all  at  once, 

As  doze  out  half  one's  days,  like  you,  you  stupid  dunce !" 

THE  GRASS-TRIBE. 
Tutor —  George — Harry. 

Harry.  Pray,  what  is  that  growing  on  the  other  side  of  the  hedge  1 

George.    Why  it  is  corn — do  n't  you  see  it  is  in  ear. 

Har.  Yes — but  it  seems  too  short  for  corn  ;  and  the  corn  we  just  now 
passed  is  not  in  ear  by  a  great  deal. 

Geo.  Then  I  do  n't  know  what  it  is.     Pray,  sir,  will  you  tell  us  ? 

Tut.  I  do  n't  wonder  you  were  puzzled  about  it.  It  is  a  sort  of  grass 
sown  for  hay,  and  is  called  rye-grass. 

Har,  But  how  happens  it  that  it  is  so  very  like  corn  ? 

Tut.  There  is  no  great  wonder  in  that,  for  all  corn  is  really  a  kind  of 
grass ;  on  the  other  hand,  if  you  were  a  Lilliputian,  every  species  of  grass 
would  appear  to  you  amazing  large  corn. 

Geo.  Then  there  is  no  difference  between  corn  and  grass,  but  the  size? 

Tut.  None  at  all. 

Har.  But  we  eat  corn ;  and  grass  is  not  good  to  eat. 

Tut.  It  is  only  the  seeds  of  corn  that  we  eat:  we  leave  the  stalks  and 
leaves  for  cows  and  horses.  Now  we  might  eat  the  seeds  of  grass,  if  they 
were  big  enough  to  be  worth  gathering ;  and  some  particular  kinds  are  in 
fact  eaten  in  certain  countries. 

Har.  But  are  wheat  and  barley  really  grass  ? 

Tut.  Yes— they  are  a  species  of  that  great  family  of  plants,  which 
botanists  call  grasses ;  and  I  will  take  this  opportunity  of  telling  you 
something  about  them.  Go,  George,  and  pull  us  up  a  root  of  that  rye- 
grass.    Harry  and  I  will  sit  down  on  this  stile  till  you  come  to  us  ? 

Har.  Here  is  grass  enough  all  round  us. 

Tut.  Well,  then,  pull  up  a  few  roots  that  you  see  m  ear 

Geo.  Here  is  my  grass. 

Har.  And  here  is  mine 


120  TENTH    EVENING. 

Tut.  Well — spread  them  all  in  a  handkerchief  before  us.  Now  look 
at  the  roots  of  them  all.    What  do  you  call  them? 

Geo.  I  think  they  are  what  you  have  told  us—Jibrous  roots. 

Tut.  Right — they  consist  of  a  bundle  of  strings.  Then  look  at  their 
stalks — you  will  find  them  jointed  and  hollow,  like  the  straw  of  corn. 

Har.  So  they  are. 

Tut.  The  leaves,  you  see,  of  all  the  kinds  are  very  long  and  narrow, 
tapering  to  a  point  at  their  ends.     Those  of  corn,  you  know,  are  the  same. 

Har.  Yes — they  are  so  like  grass  at  first,  that  I  can  never  tell  the 
difference. 

Tut.  Next  observe  the  ears,  or  heads.  Some  of  these,  you  see,  are 
thick,  and  close,  like  those  of  wheat  or  barley  ;  others  are  more  loose  and 
open,  like  oats.  The  first  are  generally  called  spikes;  the  second  panicles. 
If  you  examine  them  closely,  you  will  find  that  they  all  consist  of  a  num- 
ber of  distinct  husky  bodies,  which  are  properly  the  flowers ;  each  of  which 
is  succeeded  by  a  single  seed.    I  dare  say  you  have  picked  ears  of  wheat? 

Har.  O  yes — I  am  very  fond  of  them  ! 

Tut.  Well  then — you  found  that  the  grains  all  lay  single,  contained 
in  a  scaly  husk  making  a  part  of  the  ear,  or  head.  Before  the  seed  was 
formed,  there  was  a  flower  in  its  place.  I  do  not  mean  a  gay  fine-coloured 
flower,  but  a  few  scales'  with  threads  coming  out  among  them,  each 
crowned  with  a  white  tip.  And  soon  after  the  ears  of  corn  appear  you 
will  find  their  flowers  open,  and  these  white  tips  coming  out  of  them. 
This  is  the  structure  of  the  flowers  and  flowering  heads  of  every  one  of 
the  grass  tribe. 

Geo.  But  what  are  the  beards  of  corn? 

Tut.  The  beards  are  bristles  or  points  running  out  from  the  ends  of  the 
husks.  They  are  properly  called  awns.  Most  of  the  grass-tribe  have 
something  of  these,  but  they  are  much  longer  in  some  kinds  than  in  others. 
In  barley,  you  know,  they  are  very  long,  and  give  the  whole  field  a  sort 
of  downy  or  silky  appearance,  especially  when  waved  by  the  wind. 

Har.  Are  there  the  same  kinds  of  corn  and  grass  in  all  countries? 

Tut.  No.  With  respect  to  corn,  that  is  in  all  countries  the  product  of 
cultivation  ;  and  different  sorts  are  found  best  to  suit  different  climates. 
Thus,  in  the  northern  parts  of  the  temperate  zone,  oats  and  rye  are  chiefly 
grown.  In  the  middle  and  southern,  barley  and  wheat.  Wheat  is  univer- 
sally the  species  preferred  for  bread-corn  ;  but  there  are  various  kinds  of 
it,  differing  from  each  other  in  size  of  grain,  colour,  and  other  qualities 


THE    GRASS-TRIBE.  12] 

Har.  Does  not  the  best  wheat  of  all  grow  in  England? 

Tut.  By  no  means.  Wheat  is  better  suited  to  the  warmer  climates, 
and  it  is  only  by  great  attention  and  upon  particular  soils  that  it  is  made 
to  succeed  well  here.  On  the  other  hand,  the  torrid  zone  is  too  hot  for 
wheat  and  our  other  grains ;  and  they  chiefly  cultivate  rice  there,  and 
Indian  corn. 

Geo.  I  have  seen  heads  of  Indian  corn  as  thick  as  my  wrist,  but  they 
do  not  look  at  all  like  our  corn. 

Tut.  Yes — the  seeds  all  grow  single  in  a  sort  of  chaffy  head  ;  and  the 
stalk  and  leaves  resemble  those  of  the  grass-tribe,  but  of  a  gigantic  size. 
But  there  are  other  plants  of  this  family,  which  perhaps  you  have  not 
mought  of. 

Geo.  What  are  they  ? 

Tut.  Canes  and  reeds — from  the  sugarcanes  and  bamboo  of  the  tropics, 
to  the  common  reed  of  our  ditches,  of  which  you  make  arrows.  All  these 
have  the  general  character  of  the  grasses. 

Har.  I  know  that  reeds  have  very  fine  feathery  heads,  like  the  tops  of 
grass. 

Tut.  They  have  so.  And  the  stalks  are  composed  of  many  joints;  as 
are  also  those  of  the  sugarcane,  Jnd  of  the  common  cane  which  grows  m 
the  southern  countries  of  Europe,  and  of  which  fishing-rods  are  often 
made,  as  well  as  of  the  bamboo  imported  hither  for  walking-sticks,  and 
applied  to  many  more  important  uses  in  the  countries  of  which  it  is  a 
native.  Some  of  these  are  very  tall  plants,  but  the  seeds  of  them  are 
small  in  proportion,  and  not  useful  for  food.  But  there  is  yet  another 
kind  of  grasslike  plants  common  among  us. 

Geo.  What  is  that? 

Tut.  Have  you  not  observed  in  the  marshes,  and  on  the  sides  of  ditches, 
a  coarse  broader-leaved  sort  of  grass  with  large  dark-coloured  spikes? 
This  is  sedge,  in  Latin  carex,  and  there  are  many  sorts  of  it. 

Har.  What  is  that  good  for  ? 

Tut.  It  is  eaten  by  cattle,  both  fresh  and  dry,  but  is  inferior  in  quality 
to  good  grass. 

Geo.  What  is  it  that  makes  one  kind  of  grass  better  than  another? 

Tut.  There  are  various  properties  which  give  value  to  grasses.  Some 
spread  more  than  others,  resist  frost  and  drought  better ;  yield  a  greater 
crop  of  leaves,  and  are  therefore  better  for  pasturage  and  hay.  The  juices 
of  some  are  more  nourishing  and  sweet  than  those  of  others.     In  general, 

6 


122  TENTH    EVENING. 

nowever,  different  grasses  are  suited  to  different  soils  ;  and  by  improving 
soils,  the  quality  of  the  grass  is  improved. 

Geo.  Does  grass  grow  in  all  countries  ? 

Tut.  Yes — the  green  turf,  which  naturally  covers  fertile  soils  of  all 
countries,  is  chiefly  composed  of  grasses  of  various  kinds.  They  form, 
therefore,  the  verdant  carpet  extended  over  the  earth ;  and  humble  as 
they  are,  contribute  more  to  beauty  and  utility,  than  any  other  part  of  the 
vegetable  creation. 

Har.  What — more  than  trees  ? 

Tut.  Yes,  certainly.  A  land  entirely  covered  with  trees  would  be 
gloomy,  unwholesome,  and  scarcely  inhabitable ;  whereas,  the  meadow, 
the  down,  and  the  cornfield,  afford  the  most  agreeable  prospects  to  the 
eye,  and  furnish  every  necessary,  and  many  of  the  luxuries  of  life.  Give 
us  corn  and  grass,  and  what  shall  we  want  for  food  ? 

Har.  Let  me  see — what  should  we  have?  There's  bread  and  flour  for 
puddings. 

Geo.  Ay,  and  milk,  for  you  know  cows  live  on  grass  and  hay — so 
there 's  cheese  and  butter  and  all  things  that  are  made  of  milk. 

Tut.  And  are  there  not  all  kinds  of  meat  too,  and  poultry  ?  And  then 
for  drink,  there  are  beer  and  ale,  which*  are  made  from  barley.  For  all 
these  we  are  chiefly  indebted  to  the  grasses. 

Geo.  Then  I  am  sure  we  are  very  much  obliged  to  the  grasses. 

Tut.  Well — let  us  now  walk  homeward.  Some  time  hence  you  shall 
make  a  collection  of  all  the  kinds  of  grasses,  and  learn  to  know  them  from 
each  other. 


A  TEA  LECTURE. 

Tutor — Pupil. 

Tutor.  Come— the  tea  is  ready.  Lay  by  your  book,  and  let  us  talk  a 
little.  You  have  assisted  in  tea-making  a  great  many  times,  and  yet  I 
dare  say  you  never  considered  what  kind  of  an  operation  it  was. 

Pupil.  An  operation  of  cookery — is  it  not  7 

Tut.  You  may  call  it  so :  but  it  is  properly  an  operation  of  chymistry. 

Pup.  Of  chymistry !  I  thought  that  had  been  a  very  deep  sort  of  a 
business. 

Tut.  O— there  are  many  things  in  common  life  that  belong  to  the 
deepest  of   sciences.      Making   tea    is    the   chymical  operation   called 


K 


A    TEA    LECTURE.  123 

infusion,  which  is,  when  a  hot  liquor  is  poured  upon  a  substance  in 
order  to  extract  something  from  it.  The  water,  you  see,  extracts  from 
the  tea-leaves  their  colour,  taste,  and  flavour. 

Pup.  Would  not  cold  water  do  the  same  ? 

Tut.  It  would,  but  more  slowly.  Heat  assists  almost  all  liquors  in 
their  power  of  extracting  the  virtues  of  herbs  and  other  substances. 
Thus  good  housewives  were  formerly  used  to  boil  their  tea,  in  order  to 
get  all  goodness  from  it  as  completely  as  possible.  The  greater  heat  and 
agitation  of  boiling  make  it  act  more  powerfully.  The  liquor  in  which  a 
substance  has  been  boiled  is  called  a  decoction  of  that  substance. 

Pup.  Then  we  had  a  decoction  of  mutton  at  dinner  to-day. 

Tut.  We  had — broth  is  a  decoction,  and  so  are  gruel  and  barley-water. 
But  when  anything  is  put  to  steep  in  a  cold  liquor  it  is  called  maceration. 
The  ingredients  of  which  ink  is  made  are  macerated.  In  all  these  cases, 
you  see,  the  whole  substance  does  not  mix  with  the  liquor,  but  only  part 
of  it.     The  reason  is,  that  part  of  it  is  soluble  in  the  liquor,  and  part  not. 

Pup.  What  is  the  meaning  of  that  ? 

Tut.  Solution  is  when  a  solid  put  into  a  fluid  entirely  disappears  in  it, 
leaving  the  liquor  clear.  Thus  when  I  throw  this  lump  of  sugar  into  my 
tea,  you  see  it  gradually  wastes  away  till  it  is  all  gone,  and  then  I  can 
taste  it  in  every  single  drop  of  my  tea ;  but  the  tea  is  as  clear  as  before. 

Pup.  Salt  would  do  the  same. 

Tut.  It  would.  But  if  I  were  to  throw  in  a  lump  of  chalk,  it  would  lie 
undissolved  at  the  bottom. 

Pup.  But  it  would  make  the  water  white. 

Tut.  True,  while  it  was  stirred ;  and  then  it  would  be  a  diffusion. 
But  while  the  chalk  was  thus  mixed  with  the  liquor,  it  would  lose  its 
transparency,  and  not  recover  it  again  till,  by  standing,  the  chalk  had  all 
subsided  and  left  the  liquor  as  it  was  before. 

Pup.  How  is  the  cream  mixed  with  the  tea  ? 

Tut.  Why,  that  is  only  diffused,  for  it  takes  away  the  transparency  of 
the  tea.  But  the  particles  of  cream  being  finer  and  lighter  than  those  of 
chalk,  it  remains  longer  united  with  the  liquor.  However,  in  time  the 
cream  would  separate  too,  and  rise  to  the  top,  leaving  the  tea  clear 
Now,  suppose  you  had  a  mixture  of  sugar,  salt,  chalk,  and  tea-leaves, 
and  were  to  throw  it  into  water,  either  hot  or  cold;  what  would  be  the 
effect  ? 

Pup.  The  sugar  and  salt  would  be  dissolved  and  disappear.     Th 


/ 

X 


124  TENTH    EVENING. 

tea-leaves  would  yield  their  colour  and  taste.  The  chalk — I  do  not 
Know  what  would  become  of  that. 

Tut.  Why,  if  the  mixture  were  stirred,  the  chalk  would  be  diffused 
through  it,  and  make  it  turbid  or  muddy  j  but  on  standing,  it  would  leave 
it  unchanged. 

Pup.  Then  there  would  remain  at  bottom  the  chalk  and  tea-leaves  ? 

Tut.  Yes.  The  clear  liquor  would  contain  in  solution  salt,  sugar,  and 
those  particles  of  the  tea  in  which  its  colour  and  taste  consisted  j  the 
remainder  of  the  tea  and  the  chalk  would  lie  undissolved. 

Pup.  Then  I  suppose  tea-leaves,  after  the  tea  is  made,  are  lighter  than 
at  first. 

Tut.  Undoubtedly.  If  taken  out  and  dried  they  would  be  found  to 
have  lost  part  of  their  weight,  and  the  water  would  have  gained  it. 
Sometimes,  however,  it  is  an  extremely  small  portion  of  a  substance 
wnich  is  soluble,  but  it  is  that  in  which  its  most  remarkable  qualities 
reside.  Thus  a  small  piece  of  spice  will  communicate  a  strong  flavour 
to  a  large  quantity  of  liquid,  with  very  little  loss  of  weight. 

Pup.  Will  all  liquors  dissolve  the  same  things  ? 

Tut.  By  no  means.  Many  dissolve  in  water  that  will  not  in  spirit  of 
wine  ;  and  the  contrary.  And  upon  this  difference  many  curious  matters 
in  the  arts  are  founded.  Thus,  spirit-varnish  is  made  of  a  solution  of 
various  gums  or  resins  in  spirits  that  will  not  dissolve  in  water.  There- 
fore, when  it  has  been  laid  over  any  surface  with  a  brush,  and  is  become 
dry,  the  rain  or  moisture  of  the  air  will  not  affect  it.  This  is  the  case 
with  the  beautiful  varnish  laid  upon  coaches.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
varnish  left  by  gum-water  could  not  be  washed  off  by  spirits. 

Pup.  I  remember  when  I  made  gum-water,  upon  setting  the  cup  in  a 
warm  place,  it  all  dried  away,  and  left  the  gum  just  as  it  was  before. 
Would  the  same  happen  if  I  had  sugar  or  salt  dissolved  in  water  ? 

Tut.  Yes,  upon  exposing  the  solution  to  warmth,  it  would  dry  away, 
and  you  would  get  back  your  salt  and  sugar  in  a  solid  state  as  before. 

Pup.  But  if  I  were  to  do  so  with  a  cup  of  tea,  what  should  I  get  ? 

Tut.  Not  tea-leaves,  certainly  !  But  your  question  requires  a  little 
previous  explanation.  It  is  the  property  of  heat  to  make  most  things  fly 
off  in  vapour,  which  is  called  evaporation,  or  exhalation.  But  this  it 
does  in  very  different  degrees  to  different  substances.  Some  are  very 
easily  made  to  evaporate  ;  others  very  difficultly  ;  and  others  not  at  all 
by  the  most  violent  fire  we  can  raise.    Fluids   in   general  are   easily 


X 


A    TEA    LECTURE.  125 

evaporable  ;  but  not  equally  so.  Spirit  of  wine  flies  off  in  vapour  much 
sooner  than  water ;  so  that  if  you  had  a  mixture  of  the  two,  by  applying 
a  gentle  heat  you  might  drive  off  almost  all  the  spirit,  while  the  greater 
part  of  the  water  would  remain.  Water,  again,  is  more  evaporable  than 
oil.  Some  solid  substances  are  much  disposed  to  evaporate :  thus, 
smelling  salts  may  by  a  little  heat  be  entirely  driven  away  in  the  air 
But  in  general,  solids  are  more  Jiated  than  fluids;  and,  therefore,  when  a 
solid  is  dissolved  in  a  fluid,  it  may  commonly  be  recovered  again  by 
evaporation.  By  this  operation  common  salt  is  got  from  seawater  and 
salt  springs,  both  artificially,  and,  in  hot  countries,  by  the  natural  heat  of 
the  sun.  When  the  water  is  no  more  than  is  just  sufficient  to  dissolve 
the  salt,  it  is  called  a  saturated  solution,  and  on  evaporating  the  water 
further,  the  salt  begins  to  separate,  forming  little  regular  masses  called 
crystals.  Sugar  may  be  made  in  like  manner  to  form  crystals,  and  then 
it  is  sugar-candy. 

Pup.  But  what  is  a  sirup  ? 

Tut.  That  is  when  so  much  sugar  is  dissolved  as  sensibly  to  thicken 
the  liquor,  but  not  to  separate  from  it.  Well — now  to  your  question 
about  tea.  On  exposing  it  to  considerable  heat,  those  fine  particles  in 
which  its  flavour  consists,  being  as  volatile  or  evaporable  as  the  water, 
would  fly  off  along  with  it;  and  when  the  liquor  came  to  dryness,  there 
would  be  left  only  those  particles  in  which  its  roughness  and  colour 
consist.     This  would  make  what  is  called  an  extract  of  a  plant. 

Pup.  What  becomes  of  the  water  that  evaporates  ? 

Tut.  It  ascends  into  the  air,  and  unites  with  it.  But  if  in  its  way  it 
be  stopped  by  any  cold  body,  it  is  condensed,  that  is,  it  returns  to  the 
state  of  water  again.  Lift  up  the  lid  of  the  teapot  and  you  will  find 
water  collected  on  the  inside  of  it,  which  is  condensed  steam  from  the 
hot  tea  beneath.  Hold  a  spoon  or  knife  in  the  way  of  the  steam  which 
bursts  out  of  the  spout  of  the  teakettle,  and  you  will  find  it  immediately 
covered  with  drops.  This  operation  of  turning  a  fluid  into  vapour,  and 
then  condensing  it,  is  called  distillation.  For  this  purpose,  the  vessel  in 
which  the  liquor  is  heated  is  closely  covered  with  another  called  the  head, 
into  which  the  steam  rises  and  is  condensed.  It  is  then  drawn  off  by 
means  of  a  pipe  into  another  vessel  called  the  receiver.  In  this  way  all 
sweet-scented  and  aromatic  liquors  are  drawn  from  fragrant  vegetables, 
by  means  of  water  or  spirits.  The  fragrant  part  being  very  volatile  rises 
along  with  the  steam  of  the  water  or  spirit,  and  remains  united  with  it 


126  TENTH    EVENING. 

after  it  is  condensed.  Rosewater,  and  spirits  of  lavender,  are  liquors  of 
this  kind. 

Pup.  Then  the  water  collected  on  the  inside  of  the  teapot-lid  should 
have  the  fragrance  of  the  tea. 

Tut.  It  should — but  unless  the  tea  were  fine,  you  could  scarcely 
perceive  it. 

Pup.  I  think  I  have  heard  of  making  salt  water  fresh  by  distilling. 

Tut.  Yes.  That  is  an  old  discovery  lately  revived.  The  salt  in 
seawater,  being  of  a  fixed  nature,  does  not  rise  with  the  steam ;  and 
therefore,  on  condensing  the  steam,  the  water  is  found  to  be  fresh.  And 
this  indeed  is  the  method  nature  employs  in  raising  water  by  exhalation 
from  the  ocean,  which,  collecting  in  clouds,  is  condensed  in  the  cold  region 
of  the  air,  and  falls  down  in  rain. 

But  our  tea  is  done :  so  we  will  now  put  an  end  to  our  chymical  lecture. 

Pup.     But  is  this  real  chymistry  ? 

Tut.  Yes,  it  is. 

Pup.    Why,  I  understand  it  all  without  any  difficulty. 

Tut.  I  intended  you  should. 

THE  KIDNAPPERS. 

Mr.  B.  was  accustomed  to  read  in  the  evening  to  his  young  folks  some 
select  story,  and  then  ask  them  in  turn  what  they  thought  of  it.  From 
the  reflections  they  made  on  these  occasions,  he  was  enabled  to  form  a 
judgment  of  their  dispositions,  and  was  led  to  throw  in  remarks  of  his 
own,  by  which  their  hearts  and  understandings  might  be  improved.  One 
night  he  read  the  following  narrative  from  Churchill's  Voyages  : — 

"  In  some  voyages  of  discovery  made  from  Denmark  to  Greenland,  the 
sailors  were  instructed  to  seize  some  of  the  natives  by  force  or  stratagem, 
and  bring  them  away.  In  consequence  of  these  orders,  several  Green 
landers  were  kidnapped  and  brought  to  Denmark.  Though  they  were 
treated  there  with  kindness,  the  poor  wretches  were  always  melancholy,  and 
were  observed  frequently  to  turn  their  faces  toward  the  north,  and  sigh 
bitterly.  They  made  several  attempts  to  escape,  by  putting  out  to  sea  in 
their  little  canoes,  which  had  been  brought  with  them.  One  of  them  had 
got  as  far  as  thirty  leagues  from  land  before  he  was  overtaken.  It  was 
remarked  that  this  poor  man,  whenever  he  met  a  woman  with  a  child  in 
her  arms,  used  to  utter  a  deep  sigh  ;  whence  it  was  conjectured  that  he 


THE    KIDNAPPERS.  127 

had  left  a  wife  and  child  behind  him.  They  all  pined  away  one  after 
another,  and  died  miserably." 

"Now,  Edward,"  said  he,  "what  is  your  opinion  of  this  story?" 

Ed.  Poor  creatures  !  I  think  it  was  barbarous  to  take  them  from  home. 

Mr.  B.  It  was,  indeed  ! 

Ed.  Have  civilized  nations  any  right  to  behave  so  to  savages  ? 

Mr.  B.  I  thinkyoumay  readily  answer  that  question  yourself.  Suppose 
you  were  a  savage — what  would  be  your  opinion? 

Ed.  I  dare  say  I  should  think  it  very  wrong.  But  can  savages  think 
about  right  and  wrong  as  we  do? 

Mr.  B.  Why  not  ?  are  they  not  men  ? 

Ed.  Yes  ;  but  not  like  civilized  men,  sure  ? 

Mr.  B.  I  know  no  important  difference  between  ourselves  and  those 
people  we  are  pleased  to  call  savage,  but  in  the  degree  of  knowledge  and 
virtue  possessed  by  each.  And  I  believe  many  individuals  among  the 
Greenlanders  as  well  as  other  unpolished  people,  exceed  in  these  respects 
many  among  us.  In  the  present  case  I  am  sure  the  Danish  sailors  showed 
themselves  the  greater  savages. 

Ed.  But  what  did  they  take  away  the  Greenlanders  for  ? 

Mr.  B.  The  pretence  was,  that  they  might  be  brought  to  be  instructed 
in  a  Christian  country,  and  then  sent  back  to  civilize  their  countrymen. 

Ed.  And  was  not  that  a  good  thing  ? 

Mr.  B.  Certainly,  if  it  were  done  by  proper  means ;  but  to  attempt  it 
by  an  act  of  violence  and  injustice  could  not  be  right :  for  they  could 
teach  them  nothing  so  good  as  their  example  was  bad ;  and  the  poor 
people  were  not  likely  to  learn  willingly  from  those  who  had  begun  with 
injuring  them  so  cruelly. 

Ed.  I  remember  Captain  Cook,  brought  over  somebody  from  Otaheite ; 
and  poor  Lee  Boo  was  brought  here  from  the  Pelew  islands.  But  I 
believe  they  both  came  of  their  own  accord  ? 

Mr.  B.  They  did.  And  it  is  a  great  proof  of  the  better  way  of  thinking 
of  modern  voyagers  than  former  ones,  that  they  do  not  consider  it  as  justi- 
fiable to  use  violence  even  for  the  supposed  benefit  of  the  people  they  visit. 

Ed.  I  have  read  of  taking  possession  of  a  newly-discovered  country  by 
setting  up  the  king's  standard  or  some  such  ceremony,  though  it  was  full 
of  inhabitants. 

Mr.  B.  Such  was  formerly  the  custom ;  and  a  more  impudent  mockery 
of  all  right  and  justice  can  scarcely  be  conceived.    Yet  this,  I  am  sorry  to 


128  TENTH    EVENING. 

say,  is  the  title  by  which  European  nations  claim  the  greatest  part  of  their 
foreign  settlements. 

Ed.  And  might  not  the  natives  drive  them  out  again,  if  they  were  able? 

Mr.  B.  I  am  sure  I  do  not  know  why  they  might  not ;  for  force  can 
never  give  right.    Now,  Harry,  tell  me  what  you  think  of  the  story. 

Harry.  I  think  it  very  strange  that  people  should  want  to  go  back  to 
such  a  cold  dismal  place  as  Greenland. 

Mr.  B.  Why  what  country  do  you  love  best  in  the  world  ? 

Har.  England,  to  be  sure  ! 

Mr.  B.  But  England  is  by  no  means  the  warmest  and  finest  country 
Here  are  no  grapes  growing  in  the  fields,  nor  oranges  in  the  woods  and 
hedges,  as  there  are  in  more  southern  climates. 

Har.  I  should  like  them  very  well,  to  be  sure — but  then  England  is  my 
own  native  country,  where  you  and  mamma  and  all  my  friends  live. 
Besides  it  is  a  very  pleasant  country,  too. 

Mr.  B.  As  to  your  first  reason,  you  must  be  sensible  that  the  Green- 
lander  can  say  just  the  same  ;  and  the  poor  fellow  who  left  a  wife  and 
children  behind,  must  have  had  the  strongest  of  all  ties  to  make  him  wish 
to  return.  Do  you  think  I  should  be  easy  to  be  separated  from  all  of  you? 

Har.  No ;  and  I  am  sure  we  should  not  be  easy,  neither. 

Mr.  B.  Home,  my  dear,  wherever  it  is,  is  the  spot  toward  which  a 
good  heart  is  the  most  strongly  drawn.  Then,  as  for  the  pleasantness  of 
a  place,  that  all  depends  upon  habit.  The  Greenlander,  being  accustomed 
to  the  way  of  living,  and  all  the  objects  of  his  own  country,  could  not 
relish  any  other  so  well.  He  loved  whale-fat  and  seal  as  well  as  you 
can  do  pudding  and  beef.  He  thought  rowing  his  little  boat  amid  the 
boisterous  waves  pleasanter  employment  than  driving  a  plough  or  a  cart. 
He  fenced  himself  against  the  winter's  cold  by  warm  clothing ;  and  the 
long  night  of  many  weeks,  which  you  would  think  so  gloomy,  was  to  him 
a  season  of  ease  and  festivity  in  his  habitation  underground.  It  is  a  very 
kind  and  wise  dispensation  of  Providence,  that  every  part  of  the  world  is 
rendered  most  agreeable  to  those  who  live  in  it. 

Now  little  Mary  what  have  you  to  say  ? 

Mary.  I  have  only  to  say,  that  if  they  were  to  offer  to  carry  me  away 
from  home,  I  would  scratch  their  eyes  out ! 

Mr.  B.  Well  said,  my  girl !  stand  up  for  yourself.  Let  nobody  run 
away  with  you — against  your  will. 

Mary.  That  I  wo  n't. 


X 


EVENING  XL 


ON  MANUFACTURES. 
Father — Henry. 

Henry.  My  dear  father,  you  observed  the  other  day  that  we  had  a  great 
many  manufactures  in  England.     Pray,  what  is  a  manufacture  ? 

Father.  A  manufacture  is  something  made  by  the  hand  of  man.  It  is 
derived  from  two  Latin  words,  manus,  the  hand,  and  facere,  to  make. 
Manufactures  are  therefore  opposed  to  productions,  which  latter  are  what 
the  bounty  of  nature  spontaneously  affords ;  as  fruits,  corn,  marble. 

Hen.  But  there  is  a  great  deal  of  trouble  with  corn :  you  have  often 

6*  129 


130  ELEVENTH    EVENING. 

made  me  take  notice  how  much  pains  it  costs  the  farmer  to  plough  his 
ground,  and  put  the  seed  in  the  earth,  and  keep  it  clear  from  weeds. 

Fa.  Very  true :  but  the  farmer  does  not  make  the  corn ;  he  only  prepares 
for  it  a  proper  soil  and  situation,  and  removes  every  hinderance  arising 
from  the  hardness  of  the  ground,  or  the  neighbourhood  of  other  plants, 
which  might  obstruct  the  secret  and  wonderful  process  of  vegetation ;  but 
with  the  vegetation  itself  he  has  nothing  to  do.  It  is  not/iis  hand  that  draws 
out  the  slender  fibres  of  the  root,  pushes  up  the  green  stalk,  and  by  degrees 
the  spiky  ear;  swells  the  grain,  and  embrowns  it  with  that  rich  tinge  of 
tawny  russet,  which  informs  the  husbandman  it  is  time  to  put  in  his 
sickle :  all  this  operation  is  performed  without  his  care,  or  even  knowledge. 

Hsn.  Now,  then,  I  understand ;  corn  is  a  production,  and  bread  is  a 
manufacture. 

Fa.  Bread  is  certainly,  in  strictness  of  speech,  a  manufacture  ;  but  we 
do  not  in  general  apply  the  term  to  anything  in  which  the  original  material 
is  so  little  changed.  If  we  wanted  to  speak  of  bread  philosophically,  we 
should  say,  it  is  a  preparation  of  corn. 

Hen.  Is  sugar  a  manufacture  ? 

Fa.  No,  for  the  same  reason.  Besides  which,  I  do  not  recollect  the 
term  being  applied  to  any  article  of  food ;  I  suppose  from  an  idea  that 
food  is  of  too  perishable  a  nature,  and  generally  obtained  by  a  process  too 
simple  to  deserve  the  name.  We  say,  therefore,  sugar-works,  oil-mills, 
chocolate- works  ;  we  do  not  say  a  beer-manufactory,  but  a  brewery ;  but 
this  is  only  a  nicety  of  language,  for  properly  all  those  are  manufactories, 
if  there  is  much  of  art  and  curiosity  in  the  process. 

Hen.  Do  we  say  a  manufactory  of  pictures  ? 

Fa.  No ;  but  for  a  different  reason.  A  picture,  especially  if  it  belong 
to  any  of  the  higher  kinds  of  painting,  is  an  effort  of  genius.  A  picture 
cannot  be  produced  by  any  given  combinations  of  canvass  and  colour.  It 
is  the  hand,  indeed,  that  executes,  but  the  head  that  works.  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds  could  not  have  gone,  when  he  was  engaged  to  paint  a  picture, 
and  hired  workmen,  the  one  to  draw  the  eyes,  another  the  nose,  a  third 
the  mouth :  the  whole  must  be  the  painter's  own,  that  particular  painter's, 
and  no  other ;  and  no  one  who  has  not  his  ideas  can  do  his  work.  His 
work  is  therefore  nobler,  of  a  higher  species. 

Hen.  Pray,  give  me  an  instance  of  a  manufacture. 

Fa.  The  making  of  watches  is  a  manufacture:  the  silver,  iron,  gold, 
or  whatever  else  is  used  in  it,  are  productions,  the  materials  of  the  work ; 


< 


MANUFACTURES.  131 

but  it  is  by  the  wonderful  art  of  man  that  they  are  wrought  into  the 
numberless  wheels  and  springs  of  which  this  complicated  machine  is 
composed. 

Hen.  Then  is  there  not  as  much  art  in  making  a  watch  as  a  picture  ? 
Does  not  the  head  work  ?  '   • 

Fa.  Certainly,  in  the  original  invention  of  watches,  as  much,  or  more, 
than  in  painting;  but  when  once  invented,  the  art  of  watchmaking  is 
capable  of  being  reduced  to  a  mere  mechanical  labour,  which  may  be 
exercised  by  any  man  of  common  capacity,  according  to  certain  precise 
rules,  when  made  familiar  to  him  by  practice:  of  this  painting  is  not 
capable. 

Hen.  But,  my  dear  father,  making  books  surely  requires  a  great  deal 
of  thinking  and  study;  and  yet  I  remember  the  other  day  at  dinner  a 
gentleman  said  that  Mr.  Pica  had  manufactured  a  large  volume  in  less 
than  a  fortnight. 

Fa.  It  was  meant  to  convey  a  satirical  remark  on  his  book  because  it 
was  compiled  from  other  authors,  from  whom  he  had  taken  a  page  in  one 
place,  and  a  page  in  another;  so  that  it  was  not  produced  by  the  labour 
of  his  brain,  but  of  his  hands.  Thus  you  heard  your  mother  complain 
that  the  London  cream  was  manufactured ;  which  was  a  pointed  and 
concise  way  of  saying  that  the  cream  was  not  what  it  ought  to  be,  or  what 
it  pretended  to  be :  for  cream,  when  genuine,  is  a  pure  production ;  but 
when  mixed  up  and  adulterated  with  flour  and  isingglass,  and  I  know  not 
what,  it  becomes  a  manufacture.  It  was  as  much  as  to  say,  art  has  been 
here  where  it  has  no  business ;  where  it  is  not  beneficial,  but  hurtful.  A 
great  deal  of  the  delicacy  of  language  depends  upon  an  accurate  knowledge 
of  the  specific  meaning  of  single  terms,  and  a  nice  attention  to  their 
relative  propriety. 

Hen.  Have  all  nations  manufactures  ? 

Fa.  All  that  are  in  any  degree  cultivated  ;  but  it  very  often  happens 
that  countries  naturally  the  poorest  have  manufactures  of  the  greatest 
extent  and  variety. 

Hen.  Why  so? 

Fa.  For  the  same  reason,  I  apprehend,  that  individuals,  who  are  rich 
without  any  labour  of  their  own,  are  seldom  so  industrious  and  active  as 
those  who  depend  upon  their  own  exertions :  thus  the  Spaniards,  who 
possess  the  richest  gold  and  silver  mines  in  the  world,  are  in  want  of 
many  conveniences  of  life  which  are  enjoyed  in  London  and  Amsterdam. 


132  ELEVENTH    EVENING. 

Hen.  I  can  comprehend  that :  I  believe  if  my  uncle  Leger  were  to 
find  a  gold  mine  under  his  warehouse,  he  would  soon  shut  up  his  shop. 

Fa.  I  believe  so.  It  is  not,  however,  easy  to  establish  manufactures 
in  a  very  poor  nation :  they  require  science  and  genius  for  their  inven- 
tion, art  and  contrivance  for  their  execution ;  order,  peace,  and  union,  for 
their  flourishing.  They  require,  too,  a  number  of  men  to  combine  together 
in  an  undertaking,  and  to  prosecute  it  with  the  most  patient  industry ; 
they  require,  therefore,  laws  and  government  for  their  protection.  If  you 
see  extensive  manufactures  in  any  nation,  you  may  be  sure  it  is  a  civilized 
nation,  you  may  be  sure  property  is  accurately  ascertained  and  protected. 
They  require  great  expenses  for  their  first  establishment,  costly  machines 
for  shortening  manual  labour,  and  money  and  credit  for  purchasing  mate- 
rials from  distant  countries.  There  is  not  a  single  manufacture  of  Great 
Britain  which  does  not  require,  in  some  part  or  other  of  its  process, 
productions  from  the  different  parts  of  the  globe,  oils,  drugs,  varnish, 
quicksilver,  and  the  like :  it  requires,  therefore,  ships  and  a  friendly 
intercourse  with  foreign  nations,  to  transport  commodities  and  exchange 
productions.  We  could  not  be  a  manufacturing,  unless  we  were  also  a 
commercial  nation.  They  require  time  to  take  root  in  any  place,  and 
their  excellence  often  depends  upon  some  nice  and  delicate  circumstance ; 
a  peculiar  quality,  for  instance,  in  the  air  or  water,  or  some  other  local 
circumstance  not  easily  ascertained.  Thus,  I  have  heard  that  the  Irish 
women  spin  better  than  the  English,  because  the  moister  temperature  of 
their  climate  makes  their  skin  more  soft  and  their  fingers  more  flexible : 
thus  again  we  cannot  die  so  beautiful  a  scarlet  as  the  French  can,  though 
with  the  same  drugs,  perhaps  on  account  of  the  superior  purity  of  the  air. 
But  though  so  much  is  necessary  for  the  perfection  of  the  more  curious 
and  complicated  manufactures,  all  nations  possess  those  which  are 
subservient  to  the  common  conveniences  of  life  ; — the  loom  and  the  forge, 
particularly,  are  of  the  highest  antiquity. 

Hen.  Yes ;  I  remember  Hector  bids  Andromache  return  to  her  apart- 
ments, and  employ  herself  in  weaving  with  her  maids  ;  and  I  remember 
the  shield  of  Achilles. 

Fa.  True ;  and  you  likewise  remember,  in  an  earlier  period,  the  fine 
linen  of  Egypt :  and  to  go  still  higher,  the  working  of  iron  and  brass  is 
recorded  of  Tubal-Cain  before  the  flood. 

Hen.  Which  is  the  most  important,  manufactures  or  agriculture  ? 

Fa.  Agriculture   is   the    most  necessary,  because    it  is  first   of   all 


< 


MANUFACTURES.  133 

necessary  that  man  should  live;  but  almost  all  the  enjoyments  and 
comforts  of  life  are  produced  by  manufactures. 

Hen.  Why  are  we  obliged  to  take  so  much  pains  to  make  ourselves 
comfortable  ? 

Fa.  To  exercise  our  industry.  Nature  provides  the  materials  for  man. 
She  pours  out  at  his  feet  a  profusion  of  gems,  metals,  dies,  plants,  ores, 
bark,  stones,  gums,  wax,  marbles,  woods,  roots,  skins,  earth,  and  minerals 
of  all  kinds  !     She  has  likewise  given  him  tools. 

Hen.  I  did  not  know  that  nature  gave  us  tools. 

Fa.  No !  what  are  those  two  instruments  you  carry  always  about  with 
you,  so  strong  and  yet  so  flexible,  so  nicely  jointed,  and  branched  out 
into  five  long,  taper,  unequal  divisions,  any  of  which  may  be  contracted 
or  stretched  out  at  pleasure ;  the  extremities  of  which  have  a  feeling  so 
wonderfully  delicate,  and  which  are  strengthened  and  defended  by  horn '? 

Hen.  The  hands? 

Fa.  Yes.  Man  is  as  much  superior  to  the  brutes  in  his  outward  form, 
by  means  of  the  hand,  as  he  is  in  his  mind  by  the  gifts  of  reason.  The 
trunk  of  the  elephant  comes  perhaps  the  nearest  to  it  in  its  exquisite 
feeling  and  flexibility,  (it  is,  indeed,  called  his  hand  in  Latin,)  and  accord- 
ingly that  animal  has  always  been  reckoned  the  wisest  of  brutes.  When 
Nature  gave  man  the  hand,  she  said  to  him.  "  Exercise  your  ingenuity 
and  work."  As  soon  as  ever  a  man  rises  above  the  state  of  a  savage,  he 
begins  to  contrive  and  to  make  things,  in  order  to  improve  his  forlorn 
condition :  thus  you  may  remember  Thomson  represents  Industry  com- 
ing to  the  poor  shivering  wretch,  and  teaching  him  the  arts  of  life  : — 

"  Taught  him  to  chip  the  wood,  and  hew  the  stone, 
Till  by  degrees  the  finished  fabric  rose ; 
Tore  from  his  limbs  the  bloody-polluted  fur, 
And  wrapped  them  in  the  woolly  vestment  warm, 
Or  bright  in  glossy  silk  and  flowing  lawn." 

Hen.  It  must  require  a  great  deal  of  knowledge,  I  suppose,  for  so  many 
curious  works  ;  what  kind  of  knowledge  is  most  necessary  ? 

Fa.  There  is  not  any  which  may  not  be  occasionally  employed ;  but 
the  two  sciences  which  rr  ost  assist  the  manufacturer  are  mechanics  and 
chymistry  ;  the  one  for  building  mills,  working  mines,  and  in  general  for 
constructing  wheels,  wedges,  pulleys,  &c,  either  to  shorten  the  labour  of 
man,  by  performing  it  in  less  time,  or  to  perform  what  the  strength  of 


134  ELEVENTH    EVENING. 

man  alone  could  not  accomplish  ;  the  other  in  fusing  and  working  ores, 
in  dying  and  bleaching,  and  extracting  the  virtues  of  various  substances 
for  particular  uses  ;  making  of  soap,  for  instance,  is  a  chymical  operation  ; 
and  by  chymistry  an  ingenious  gentleman  has  lately  found  out  a  way  of 
bleaching  a  piece  of  cloth  in  eight-and-forty  hours,  which  by  the  common 
process  would  have  taken  up  a  great  many  weeks.  You  have  heard  of 
Sir  Richard  Arkwright,  who  died  lately  ? 

Hen.  Yes,  I  have  heard  he  was  at  first  only  a  barber,  and  shaved 
people  for  a  penny  apiece. 

Fa.  He  did  so;  but  having  a  strong  turn  for  mechanics,  he  invented, 
or  at  least  perfected  a  machine,  by  which  one  pair  of  hands  may  do  the 
work  of  twenty  or  thirty  ;  and,  as  in  this  country  every  one  is  free  to  rise 
by  merit,  he  acquired  the  largest  fortune  in  the  country,  had  a  great  many 
hundreds  of  workmen  under  his  orders,  and  had  leave  given  him  by  the 
king  to  put  Sir  before  his  name. 

Hen.  Did  that  do  him  any  good  ? 

Fa.  It  pleased  him,  I  suppose,  or  he  would  not  have  accepted  of  it ; 
and  you  will  allow,  I  imagine,  that  if  titles  are  used,  it  does  honour  to 
those  who  bestow  them,  when  they  are  given  to  such  as  have  made  them- 
selves noticed  for  something  useful.  Arkwright  used  to  say,  that  if  he 
had  time  to  perfect  his  inventions,  he  would  put  a  fleece  of  wool  into  a 
box,  and  it  should  come  out  broadcloth. 

Hen.  What  did  he  mean  by  that?  Was  there  any  fairy  in  the  box  to 
turn  it  into  broadcloth  with  her  wand? 

Fa.  He  was  assisted  by  the  only  fairies  that  ever  had  the  power  of 
transformation — art  and  industry :  he  meant  that  he  would  contrive  so 
many  machines,  wheel  within  wheel,  that  the  combing,  carding,  and 
various  other  operations,  should  be  performed  by  mechanism,  almost 
without  the  hand  of  man. 

Hen.  I  think,  if  I  had  not  been  told,  I  should  never  have  been  able  to 
guess  that  my  coat  came  off  the  back  of  the  sheep. 

Fa.  You  hardly  would;  but  there  are  manufactures  in  which  the 
material  is  much  more  changed  than  in  woollen  cloth.  What  can  be 
meaner  in  appearance  than  sand  and  ashes?  Would  you  imagine  any- 
thing beautiful  could  be  made  out  of  such  a  mixture  ?  Yet  the  furnace 
transforms  this  into  that  transparent  crystal  we  call  glass,  than  which 
nothing  is  more  sparkling,  more  brilliant,  more  full  of  lustre.  It  throws 
about  the  rays  of  light  as  if  it  had  life  and  motion. 


< 


MANUFACTURES.  135 

Hen.  There  is  a  glass  shop  in  London  which  always  puts  me  in  mind 
of  Aladdin's  palace. 

Fa.  It  is  certain  that  if  a  person,  ignorant  of  the  manufacture,  were  to 
see  one  of  our  capital  shops,  he  would  think  all  the  treasures  of  Golconda 
were  centred  there,  and  that  every  drop  of  cut-glass  was  worth  a  prince's 
ransom.  Again,  who  would  suppose,  on  seeing  the  green  stalks  of  a  plant, 
Chat  it  could  be  formed  into  a  texture  so  smooth,  so  snowy-white,  so  firm, 
and  yet  so  flexible  as  to  wrap  round  the  limbs,  and  adapt  itself  to  every 
movement  of  the  body  ?  Who  would  guess  this  fibrous  stalk  could  be 
made  to  float  in  such  light  undulating  folds  as  in  our  lawns  and  cambrics ; 
not  less  fine,  we  presume,  than  that  transparent  drapery  which  the  Romans 
called  ventus  textilis,  woven  wind? 

Hen,  I  wonder  how  anybody  can  spin  such  fine  thread ! 

Fa.  Their  fingers  must  have  the  touch  of  a  spider,  that,  as  Pope  says, 

"  Feels  at  each  thread,  and  lives  along  the  line ;" 

and,  indeed,  you  recollect  that  Arachne  was  a  spinster.  Lace  is  a  still 
finer  production  from  flax,  and  is  one  of  those  in  which  the  original 
material  is  most  improved.  How  many  times  the  price  of  a  pound  of  flax 
do  you  think  that  flax  will  be  worth  when  made  into  lace  ? 

Hen.  A  great  many  times,  I  suppose. 

Fa.  Flax  at  the  best  hand  is  bought  at  fourteen  pence  a  pound.  They 
make  lace  at  Valenciennes,  in  French  Flanders,  of  ten  guineas  a  yard — 
I  believe,  indeed,  higher — but  we  will  say  ten  guineas ;  this  yard  of  lace 
will  weigh  probably  more  than  half  an  ounce  :  what  is  the  value  of  half 
an  ounce  of  flax? 

Hen.  It  comes  to  one  farthing  and  three  quarters  of  a  farthing. 

Fa.  Right :  now  tell  me  how  many  times  the  original  value  the  lace  is 
worth. 

Hen.  Prodigious !  it  is  worth  5760  times  as  much  as  the  flax  it  is  made  of! 

Fa.  Yet  there  is  another  material  that  is  still  more  improveable  than  flax. 

Hen.  What  can  that  be  ? 

Fa.  Iron.  The  price  of  pig-iron  is  ten  shillings  a  hundred  weight; 
this  is  not  quite  one  farthing  for  two  ounces  :  now  you  have  seen  some 
of  the  beautiful  cut-steel  that  looks  like  diamonds? 

Hen.  Yes,  I  have  seen  buckles,  and  pins,  and  watchchains. 

Fa.  Then  you  can  form  an  idea  of  it :  but  you  have  only  seen  the 


136  ELEVENTH    EVENING. 

most  common  sorts.  There  was  a  chain  made  at  Woodstock,  in  Oxford 
shire,  and  sent  to  France,  which  weighed  only  two  ounces,  and  cost  170Z. 
Calculate  how  many  times  that  had  increased  its  value. 

Hen.  Amazing !  it  was  worth  163,600  times  the  value  of  the  iron  it 
was  made  of! 

Fa.  That  is  what  manufacture  can  do :  here  man  is  a  kind  of  creator 
and,  like  the  great  Creator,  he  may  please  himself  with  his  work,  and  say 
it  is  good.  In  the  last-mentioned  manufacture,  too,  that  of  steel,  the 
English  have  the  honour  of  excelling  all  the  world. 

Hen.  What  are  the  chief  manufactures  of  England  ? 

Fa.  We  have  at  present  a  greater  variety  than  I  can  pretend  to 
enumerate,  but  our  staple  manufacture  is  woollen  cloth.  England  abounds 
in  fine  pastures  and  extensive  downs,  which  feed  great  numbers  of  sheep : 
hence  our  wool  has  always  been  a  valuable  article  of  trade  ;  but  we  did 
not  always  know  how  to  work  it.  We  used  to  sell  it  to  the  Flemish  or 
Lombards,  who  wrought  it  into  cloth ;  till,  in  the  year  1326,  Edward  the 
Third  invited  some  Flemish  weavers  over  to  teach  us  the  art ;  but  there 
was  not  much  made  in  England  till  the  reign  of  Henry  the  Seventh. 
Manchester  and  Birmingham  are  towns  which  have  arisen  to  great  con- 
sequence from  small  beginnings,  almost  within  the  memory  of  old  men 
now  living ;  the  first  for  cotton  and  muslin  goods,  the  second  for  cutlery 
and  hardware,  in  which  we  at  this  moment  excel  all  Europe.  Of  late 
years,  too,  carpets,  beautiful  as  fine  tapestry,  have  been  fabricated  in  this 
country.  Our  clocks  and  watches  are  greatly  esteemed.  The  earthenware 
plates  and  dishes,  which  we  all  use  in  common,  and  the  elegant  set  for 
the  tea-table,  ornamented  with  musical  instruments,  which  we  admired 
in  our  visit  yesterday,  belong  to  a  very  extensive  manufactory,  the  seat 
of  which  is  at  Burslem,  in  Staffordshire.  The  principal  potteries  there 
belong  to  one  person,  an  excellent  chymist,  and  a  man  of  great  taste  ;  he, 
in  conjunction  with  another  man  of  taste,  who  is  since  dead,  has  made 
our  clay  more  valuable  than  the  finest  porcelain  of  China.  He  has  moulded 
it  into  all  the  forms  of  grace  and  beauty  that  are  to  be  met  with  in  the 
precious  remains  of  the  Greek  and  Etruscan  artists.  In  the  more  common 
articles  he  has  pencilled  it  with  the  most  elegant  designs,  shaped  it  into 
shells  and  leaves,  twisted  it  into  wickerwork,  and  trailed  the  ductile 
foliage  round  the  light  basket.  He  has  filled  our  cabinets  and  chimney- 
pieces  with  urns,  lamps,  and  vases,  on  which  are  lightly  traced,  with  the 
purest  simplicity,  the  fine  forms  and  floating  draperies  of  Herculaneum. 


X? 


MANUFACTURES.  137 

In  short,  he  has  given  to  our  houses  a  classic  air,  and  has  made  every 
saloon  and  every  diningroom  schools  of  taste.  I  should  add  that  there  is 
a  great  demand  abroad  for  this  elegant  manufacture.  The  emperess  of 
Russia  has  some  magnificent  services  of  it ;  and  the  other  day  one  was 
sent  to  the  king  of  Spain,  intended  as  a  present  from  him  to  the  arch- 
bishop of  Toledo,  which  cost  a  thousand  pounds.  Some  morning  you 
shall  go  through  the  rooms  in  the  London  warehouse. 

Hen.  I  should  like  very  much  to  see  manufactures,  now  you  have  told 
me  some  curious  things  about  them. 

Fa.  You  will  do  well !  There  is  much  more  entertainment  to  a 
cultivated  mind  in  seeing  a  pin  made,  than  in  many  a  fashionable  diversion 
which  young  people  half  ruin  themselves  to  attend.  In  the  meantime  I  will 
give  you  some  account  of  one  of  the  most  elegant  of  them,  which  is  paper. 

Hen.  Pray  do,  my  dear  father. 

Fa.  It  shall  be  left  for  another  evening,  however,  for  it  is  now  late. 
Good-night. 


The  Two  Robbers,  p.  148. 

EVENING  XII. 


A  LESSON  IN  THE  ART  OP  DISTINGUISHING. 

Father.  Come  hither,  Charles ;  what  is  that  you  see  grazing  in  the 
meadow  before  you  ? 
Charles.  It  is  a  horse. 
Fa.  Whose  horse  is  it  ? 
Ch.  I  do  not  know ;  I  never  saw  it  before. 
Fa.  How  do  you  know  it  is  a  horse,  if  you  never  saw  it  before  ? 
Ch.  Because  it  is  like  other  horses. 
Fa.  Are  all  horses  alike,  then  ? 

13S 


X 


ART    OF    DISTINGUISHING.  139 

Ch.  Yes. 

Fa.  If  they  are  alike,  how  do  you  know  one  horse  from  another  ? 

Ch.  They  are  not  quite  alike. 

Fa.  But  they  are  so  much  alike,  that  v0u  can  easily  distinguish  a  horse 
from  a  cow  ? 

Ch.  Yes,  indeed. 

Fa.  Or  from  a  cabbage  ? 

Ch.  A  horse  from  a  cabbage  ?  yes,  surely  I  can. 

Fa.  Very  well ;  then  let  us  see  if  you  can  tell  how  a  horse  differs  from 
a  cabbage  ? 

Ch.  Very  easily ;  a  horse  is  alive  ? 

Fa.  True  ;  and  how  is  every  thing  called  which  is  alive  ? 

Ch.  I  believe  all  things  that  are  alive  are  called  animals. 

Fa.  Right  5  but  can  you  tell  me  what  a  horse  and  a  cabbage  are 
alike  in  ? 

Ch.  Nothing,  I  believe. 

Fa.  Yes,  there  is  one  thing  in  which  the  slenderest  moss  that  grows 
upon  the  wall  is  like  the  greatest  man  or  the  highest  angel. 

Ch.  Because  God  made  them. 

Fa.  Yes:  and  how  do  you  call  everything  that  is  made? 

Ch.  A  creature. 

Fa.  A  horse,  then,  is  a  creature,  but  also  a  living  creature ;  that  is  to 
say,  an  animal. 

Ch.  And  a  cabbage  is  a  dead  creature :  that  is  the  difference. 

Fa.  Not  so,  neither ;  nothing  is  dead  that  has  never  been  alive. 

Ch.  What  must  I  call  it,  then,  if  it  is  neither  dead  nor  alive  ? 

Fa.  An  inanimate  creature ;  there  is  the  animate  and  inanimate 
creation.  Plants,  stones,  metals,  are  of  the  latter  class ;  horses  belong 
to  the  former. 

Ch.  But  the  gardener  told  me  some  of  my  cabbages  were  dead,  and  some 
were  alive. 

Fa.  Very  true.  Plants  have  a  vegetative  life,  a  principle  of  growth 
and  decay ;  this  is  common  to  them  with  all  organized  bodies  ;  but  they 
have  not  sensation,  at  least  we  do  not  know  they  have — they  have  not 
life,  therefore  in  the  sense  in  which  animals  enjoy  it. 

Ch.  A  horse  is  called  an  animal,  then  ? 

Fa.  Yes  ;  but  a  salmon  is  an  animal ;  and  so  is  a  sparrow ;  how  will 
you  distinguish  a  horse  from  these  ? 


140  TWELFTH    EVENING. 

Ch.  A  salmon  lives  in  the  water,  and  swims  ;  a  sparrow  flies  and  lives 
in  the  air. 

Fa.  I  think  a  salmon  could  not  walk  on  the  ground,  even  if  it  could 
live  out  of  the  water. 

Ch.  No,  indeed,  it  has  no  legs. 

Fa.  And  a  bird  cannot  gallop  like  a  horse. 

Ch.  No  ;  It  hops  upon  its  two  slender  legs. 

Fa.  How  many  legs  has  a  horse  ? 

Ch,  Four. 

Fa.  And  an  ox  ? 

Ch.  Four  likewise. 

Fa.  And  a  camel  1 

Ch.  Four  still. 

Fa.  Do  you  know  any  animals  which  live  upon  the  earth  that  have  not 
four  legs  ? 

Ch.  I  think  not ;  they  have  all  four  legs,  except  worms  and  insects,  and 
such  things. 

Fa.  You  remember,  I  suppose,  what  an  animal  is  called  that  has  four 
legs  ;  you  have  it  in  your  little  books  ? 

Ch.  A  quadruped. 

Fa.  A  horse  then,  is  a  quadruped :  by  this  we  distinguish  him  from 
birds,  fishes,  and  insects. 

Ch.  And  from  men. 

Fa.  True  ;  but  if  you  had  been  talking  about  birds,  you  would  not  have 
found  it  so  easy  to  distinguish  them. 

Ch.  How  so  ?  a  man  is  not  at  all  like  a  bird. 

Fa.  Yet  an  ancient  philosopher  could  find  no  way  to  distinguish  them, 
but  by  calling  man  a  two-legged  animal  without  feathers. 

Ch.  I  think  he  was  very  silly ;  they  are  not  at  all  alike,  though  they 
have  both  two  legs. 

Fa.  Another  ancient  philosopher,  called  Diogenes,  was  of  your  opinion. 
He  stripped  a  cock  of  his  feathers,  and  turned  him  into  the  school  where 
Plato,  that  was  his  name,  was  teaching,  and  said,  "  Here  is  Plato's  man 
for  you !" 

Ch.  I  wish  I  had  been  there,  I  should  have  laughed  very  much. 

Fa.  Probably.  Before  we  laugh  at  others,  however,  let  us  see  what 
we  can  do  ourselves.  We  have  not  yet  found  anything  which  will  dis- 
tinguish a  horse  from  an  elephant,  or  from  a  Norway  rat. 


'X 


ART    OF    DISTINGUISHING.  141 

Ch.  Oh,  that  is  easy  enough  !  An  elephant  is  very  large,  and  a  rat  is 
very  small  ;  a  horse  is  neither  large  nor  small. 

Fa.  Before  we  go  any  farther,  look  what  is  settled  on  the  skirt  of  your 
coat. 

Ch.  It  is  a  butterfly :  what  a  prodigiously  large  one !  I  never  saw  such 
a  one  before. 

Fa.  Is  it  larger  than  a  rat,  think  you? 

Ch.  No,  that  it  is  not. 

Fa.  Yet  you  called  the  butterfly  large,  and  you  called  the  rat  small. 

Ch.  It  is  very  large  for  a  butterfly. 

Fa.  It  is  so.  You  see,  therefore,  that  large  and  small  are  relative 
terms. 

Ch.  I  do  not  well  understand  that  phrase. 

Fa.  It  means  that  they  have  no  precise  and  determinate  signification 
in  themselves,  but  are  applied  differently  according  to  the  other  ideas 
which  you  join  with  them,  and  the  different  positions  in  which  you  view 
them.  This  butterfly,  therefore,  is  large,  compared  with  those  of  its  own 
species,  and  small  compared  with  many  other  species  of  animals.  Be- 
sides, there  is  no  circumstance  which  varies  more  than  the  size  of  indi- 
viduals. If  you  were  to  give  an  idea  of  a  horse  from  its  size,  you  would 
certainly  say  it  was  much  bigger  than  a  dog ;  yet  if  you  take  the  smallest 
Shetland  horse,  and  the  largest  Irish  greyhound,  you  will  find  them  very 
much  upon  a  par;  size,  therefore,  is  not  a  circumstance  by  which  you 
can  accurately  distinguish  one  animal  from  another;  nor  yet  is  colour. 

Ch.  No ;  there  are  black  horses,  and  bay,  and  white,  and  pied. 

Fa.  But  you  have  not  seen  that  variety  of  colours  in  a  hare  for  instance. 

Ch.  No,  a  hare  is  always  brown. 

Fa..  Yet  if  you  were  to  depend  upon  that  circumstance,  you  would  not 
convey  the  idea  of  a  hare  to  a  mountaineer,  or  an  inhabitant  of  Siberia; 
for  he  sees  them  white  as  snow.  We  must,  therefore  find  out  some  cir- 
cumstances that  do  not  change  like  size  and  colour,  and  I  may  add  shape, 
though  they  are  not  so  obvious,  nor  perhaps  so  striking.  Look  at  the  feet 
of  quadrupeds ;  are  they  all  alike  ? 

Ch.  No :  some  have  long  taper  claws,  and  some  have  thick  clumsy 
feet  without  claws. 

Fa.  The  thick  feet  are  horny  :  are  they  not  ? 

Ch.  Yes,  I  recollect  they  are  called  hoofs. 

Fa.  And  the  feet  that  are  not  covered  with  horn  and  are  divided  into 


142  TWELFTH    EVENING. 

claws,  are  called  digitated,  from  digitus,  a  finger;  because  they  are 
parted  like  fingers.  Here,  then,  we  have  one  grand  division  of  quadrupeds 
into  hoofed  and  digitated.     Of  which  division  is  the  horse  ? 

Ch.  He  is  hoofed. 

Fa.  There  are  a  great  many  different  kinds  of  horses ;  did  you  ever 
know  one  that  was  not  hoofed  ? 

Ch.  No,  never. 

Fa.  Do  you  think  we  run  any  hazard  of  a  stranger  telling  us,  l<  Sir, 
horses  are  hoofed  indeed  in  your  country ;  but  in  mine,  which  is  in  a  dif- 
ferent climate,  and  where  we  feed  them  differently,  they  have  claws  V* 

Ch.  No,  I  dare  say  not. 

Fa.  Then  we  have  got  something  to  our  purpose ;  a  circumstance 
easily  marked,  which  always  belongs  to  the  animal,  under  every  variation 
of  situation  or  treatment.  But  an  ox  is  hoofed,  and  so  is  a  sheep ;  we 
must  distinguish  still  farther.  You  have  often  stood  by,  I  suppose,  while 
the  smith  was  shoeing  a  horse.     What  kind  of  a  hoof  has  he  ? 

Ch.  It  is  round  and  all  in  one  piece. 

Fa.  And  is  that  of  an  ox  so? 

Ch.  No,  it  is  divided. 

Fa.  A  horse,  then,  is  not  only  hoofed  but  whole-hoofed.  Now  how 
many  quadrupeds  do  you  think  there  are  in  the  world  that  are  whole- 
hoofed? 

Cli.  Indeed  I  do  not  know. 

Fa.  There  are,  among  all  animals  that  we  are  acquainted  with,  either 
in  this  country  or  in  any  other,  only  the  horse,  the  ass,  and  the  zebra, 
which  is  a  species  of  the  wild  ass.  Now,  therefore,  you  see  we  have 
nearly  accomplished  our  purpose ;  we  have  only  to  distinguish  him  from 
the  ass. 

Ch.  That  is  easily  done,  I  believe  ;  I  should  be  sorry  if  any  body  could 
mistake  my  little  horse  for  an  ass. 

Fa.  It  is  not  so  easy,  however,  as  you  imagine ;  the  eye  readily  distin- 
guishes them  by  the  air  and  general  appearance,  but  naturalists  have 
been  rather  puzzled  to  fix  upon  any  specific  difference,  which  may  serve 
the  purpose  of  a  definition.  Some  have,  therefore,  fixed  upon  the  ears, 
others  on  the  mane  and  tail.     What  kind  of  ears  has  an  ass  ? 

Ch.  Oh,  very  long  clumsy  ears !     Asses'  ears  are  always  laughed  at. 

Fa.  And  the  horse  ? 

Ch.  The  horse  has  small  ears,  nicely  turned  and  upright. 


< 


ART    OF    DISTINGUISHING.  143 

Fa.  And  the  mane,  is  there  no  difference  there  ? 

Ch.  The  horse  has  a  fine  long  flowing  mane  ;  the  ass  has  hardly  any. 

Fa.  And  the  tail :  is  it  not  fuller  of  hair  in  the  horse  than  in  the  ass  ? 

Ch.  Yes ,  the  ass  has  only  a  few  long  hairs  at  the  end  of  the  tail ;  but 
the  horse  has  a  long  bushy  tail  when  it  is  not  cut. 

Fa.  Which,  by  the  way,  it  is  a  pity  it  ever  should.  Now,  then,  observe 
what  particulars  we  have  got.  A  horse  is  an  animal  of  the  quadruped 
kind,  whole-hoofed,  with  short  erect  ears,  a  flowing  mane,  and  a  tail 
covered  in  every  part  with  long  hairs.  Now  is  there  any  other  animal, 
think  you,  in  the  world,  that  answers  these  particulars  ? 

Ch.  I  do  not  know ;  this  does  not  tell  us  a  great  deal  about  him. 

Fa.  And  yet  it  tells  us  enough  to  distinguish  him  from  all  the  different 
tribes  of  the  creation  which  we  are  acquainted  with  in  any  part  of  the 
earth.     Do  you  know  now  what  we  have  been  making  ? 

Ch.  What? 

Fa.  A  Definition.  It  is  the  business  of  a  definition  to  distinguish 
precisely  the  thing  defined  from  any  other  thing,,  and  to  do  it  in  as  few 
terms  as  possible.  Its  object  is  to  separate  the  subject  of  definition,  first 
from  those  with  which  it  has  only  a  general  resemblance,  then,  from  those 
which  agree  with  it  in  a  greater  variety  of  particulars  ;  and  so  on  till  by 
constantly  throwing  out  all  which  have  not  the  qualities  we  have  taken 
notice  of,  we  come  at  length  to  the  individual  or  the  species  we  wish  to 
ascertain.  It  is  a  kind  of  chase,  and  resembles  the  manner  of  hunting  in 
some  countries,  where  they  first  enclose  a  large  circle  with  their  dogs, 
nets,  and  horses  ;  and  then,  by  degrees,  draw  their  toils  closer  and  closer, 
driving  their  game  before  them  till  it  is  at  length  brought  into  so  narrow  a 
compass  that  the  sportsmen  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  knock  down  their 
prey.  - 

Ch.  Just  as  we  have  been  hunting  this  horse,  till  at  last  we  held  him 
fast  by  his  ears  and  tail. 

Fa.  I  should  observe  to  you,  that  in  the  definition  naturalists  give  of  a 
horse  it  is  generally  mentioned  that  he  has  six  cutting  teeth  in  each  jaw  ; 
because  this  circumstance  of  the  teeth  has  been  found  a  very  convenient 
one  for  characterizing  large  classes :  but  as  it  is  not  absolutely  necessary 
here,  I  have  omitted  it ;  a  definition  being  the  most  perfect  the  fewer 
particulars  you  make  use  of,  provided  you  can  say  with  certainty  from 
those  particulars  the  object  so  characterized  must  be  this  and  no  other 
whatever. 


144  TWELFTH    EVENING. 

Ch.  But,  papa,  if  I  had  never  seen  a  horse, 1  should  not  know  what 
kind  of  animal  it  was  by  this  definition. 

Fa.  Let  us  hear,  then,  how  you  would  give  me  an  idea  of  a  horse. 

Ch.  I  would  say  it  was  a  fine  large  prancing  creature  with  slender  legs 
and  an  arched  neck,  and  a  sleek,  smooth  skin,  and  a  tail  that  sweeps  the 
ground,  and  that  he  snorts  and  neighs  very  loud,  and  tosses  his  head,  and 
runs  as  swift  as  the  wind. 

Fa.  I  think  you  learned  some  verses  upon  the  horse  in  your  last  lesson  1 
Repeat  them. 

Ch.  The  wanton  courser  thus  with  reins  unbound 

Breaks  from  his  stall,  and  beats  the  trembling  ground ; 

Pamper'd  and  proud,  he  seeks  the  wonted  tides, 

And  laves,  in  height  of  blood,  his  shining  sides 

His  head,  now  freed,  he  tosses  to  the  skies; 

His  mane  dishevell'd  o'er  his  shoulders  flies ; 

He  snuffs  the  females  in  the  distant  plain, 

And  springs,  exulting,  to  his  fields  again.— Pope's  Homer. 

Fa.  You  have  said  very  well ;  but  this  is  not  a  definition,  it  is  a 
description, 

Ch.  What  is  the  difference  ? 

Fa.  A  description  is  intended  to  give  you  a  lively  picture  of  an  object, 
as  if  you  saw  it ;  it  ought  to  be  very  full.  A  definition  gives  no  picture 
to  those  who  have  not  seen  it:  it  rather  tells  you  what  its  subject  is  not, 
than  what  it  is,  by  giving  you  such  clear  specific  marks,  that  it  shall  not 
be  possible  to  confound  it  with  anything  else ;  and  hence  it  is  of  the 
greatest  use  in  throwing  things  into  classes.  We  have  a  great  many 
beautiful  descriptions  from  ancient  authors  so  loosely  worded  that  we 
cannot  certainly  tell  what  animals  are  meant  by  them :  whereas,  if  they 
had  given  us  definitions,  three  lines  would  have  ascertained  their  meaning. 

Ch.  I  like  a  description  best,  papa. 

Fa.  Perhaps  so ;  I  believe  I  should  have  done  the  same  at  your  age. 
Remember,  however,  that  nothing  is  more  useful  than  to  learn  to  form 
ideas  with  precision,  and  to  express  them  with  accuracy ;  I  have  not  given 
you  a  definition  to  teach  you  what  a  horse  is,  but  to  teach  you  to  think. 

THE  PHENIX  AND  DOVE. 

A  Phenix,  who  had  long  inhabited  the  solitary  deserts  of  Arabia,  once 
flew  so  near*  the  habitations  of  men  as  to  meet  with  a  tame  dove,  who 


THE    PHENIX   AND    DOVE.  145 

was  sitting  on  her  nest,  with  wings  expanded,  and  fondly  brooding  over 
her  young  ones,  while  she  expected  her  mate,  who  was  foraging  abroad 
to  procure  them  food.  The  phenix,  with  a  kind  of  insulting  compassion, 
said  to  her,  "  Poor  bird,  how  much  I  pity  thee  !  confined  to  a  single  spot, 
and  sunk  in  domestic  cares,  thou  art  continually  employed  either  in  laying 
eggs  or  providing  for  thy  brood  ;  and  thou  exhausteth  thy  life  and  strength 
in  perpetuating  a  feeble  and  defenceless  race.  As  to  myself,  I  live  exempt 
from  toil,  care,  and  misfortune.  I  feed  upon  nothing  less  precious  than 
rich  gums  and  spices.  I  fly  through  the  trackless  regions  of  the  air,  and 
when  I  am  seen  by  men,  am  gazed  at  with  curiosity  and  astonishment ! 
I  have  no  one  to  control  my  range,  no  one  to  provide  for ;  and  when  I 
have  fulfilled  my  five  centuries  of  life,  and  seen  the  revolution  of  ages,  I 
rather  vanish  than  die,  and  a  successor,  without  my  care,  springs  up  from 
my  ashes.  I  am  an  image  of  the  great  sun  whom  I  adore ;  and  glory  in 
being  like  him,  single  and  alone,  and  having  no  likeness." 

The  dove  replied,  "  O,  phenix,  I  pity  thee  much  more  than  thou  affectest 
to  pity  me!  What  pleasure  canst  thou  enjoy,  who  livest  forlorn  and 
solitary  in  a  trackless  and  unpeopled  desert  ?  who  hast  no  mate  to  caress 
thee,  no  young  ones  to  excite  thy  tenderness  and  reward  thy  cares,  no 
kindred,  no  society  among  thy  fellows  ?  Not  long  life  only,  but 
immortality  itself  would  be  a  curse,  if  it  were  to  be  bestowed  on  such 
uncomfortable  terms.  For  my  part,  I  know  that  my  life  will  be  short, 
and  therefore  I  employ  it  in  raising  a  numerous  posterity,  and  in  opening 
my  heart  to  all  the  sweets  of  domestic  happiness,  I  am  beloved  by  my 
partner ;  I  am  dear  to  man ;  and  shall  leave  marks  behind  me  that  I  have 
lived.  As  to  the  sun,  to  whom  thou  hast  presumed  to  compare  thyself, 
that  glorious  being  is  so  totally  different  from,  and  so  infinitely  superior 
to,  all  the  creatures  upon  earth,  that  it  does  not  become  us  to  liken 
ourselves  to  him,  or  to  determine  upon  the  manner  of  his  existence. 
One  obvious  difference,  however,  thou  mayest  remark  \  that  the  sun, 
though  alone,  by  his  prolific  heat  produces  all  things,  and  though  he 
shines  so  high  above  our  heads,  gives  us  reason  every  moment  to  bless 
his  beams ;  whereas  thou,  swelling  with  imaginary  greatness,  dreamest 
away  a  long  period  of  existence,  equally  void  of  comfort  and  of  usefulness." 

THE  MANUFACTURE  OP  PAPER. 
Father.  I  will  now,  as  I  promised,  give  you  an  account  of  the  elegant 
and  useful  manufacture  of  paper,  the  basis  of  which  is  itself  a  manufac- 

7 


146  TWELFTH    EVENING. 

ture.  This  delicate  and  beautiful  substance  is  made  from  the  meanest 
and  most  disgusting  materials,  from  old  rags,  which  have  passed  from 
one  poor  person  to  another,  and  have  perhaps  at  length  dropped  in  tatters 
from  the  child  of  the  beggar.  These  are  carefully  picked  up  from  dung- 
nills,  or  bought  from  servants  by  Jews,  who  make  it  their  business  to  go 
about  and  collect  them.  They  sell  them  to  the  rag-merchant,  who  gives 
them  from  two  pence  to  four  pence  a  pound,  according  to  their  quality ; 
and  he,  when  he  has  got  a  sufficient  quantity,  disposes  of  them  to  the 
owner  of  the  papermill.  He  gives  them  first  to  women  to  sort  and  pick, 
agreeably  to  their  different  degrees  of  fineness ;  they  also  with  a  knife  cut 
out  carefully  all  the  seams,  which  they  throw  into  a  basket  for  other  pur- 
poses ;  they  then  put  them  into  the  dusting-engine,  a  large  circular  wire 
sieve,  where  they  receive  some  degree  of  cleansing.  The  rags  are  then 
conveyed  to  the  mill.  Here  they  were  formerly  beat  to  pieces  with  vast 
hammers,  which  rose  and  fell  continually  with  a  most  tremendous  noise, 
that  was  heard  at  a  great  distance.  But  now  they  put  the  rags  into  a 
large  trough  or  cistern,  into  which  a  pipe  of  clear  spring  water  is  con- 
stantly flowing.  In  this  cistern  is  placed  a  cylinder,  about  two  feet  long, 
set  thick  round  with  rows  of  iron  spikes,  standing  as  near  as  they  can  to 
one  another  without  touching.  At  the  bottom  of  the  trough  there  are 
corresponding  rows  of  spikes.  The  cylinder  is  made  to  whirl  round  with 
inconceivable  rapidity,  and  with  these  iron  teeth  rends  and  tears  the  cloth 
in  every  possible  direction ;  till,  by  the  assistance  of  the  water,  which 
continually  flows  through  the  cistern,  it  is  thoroughly  masticated,  and 
reduced  to  a  fine  pulp ;  and  by  the  same  process  all  its  impurities  are 
cleansed  away,  and  it  is  restored  to  its  original  whiteness.  This  process 
takes  about  six  hours.  To  improve  the  colour  they  then  put  in  a  little 
smalt,  which  gives  it  a  bluish  cast,  which  all  paper  has  more  or  less  :  the 
French  paper  has  less  of  it  than  ours.  This  fine  pulp  is  next  put  into  a 
copper  of  warm  water.  It  is  the  substance  of  paper,  but  the  form  must 
now  be  given  it :  for  this  purpose  they  use  a  mould.  It  is  made  of  wire, 
strong  one  way,  and  crossed  with  finer.  This  mould  they  just  dip  hori- 
zontally into  the  copper  and  take  it  out  again.  It  has  a  little  wooden 
frame  on  the  edge,  by  means  of  which  it  retains  as  much  of  the  pulp  as 
is  wanted  for  the  thickness  of  the  sheet,  and  the  water  runs  off  through 
the  interstices  of  the  wires.  Another  man  instantly  receives  it,  opens  the 
frame,  and  turns  out  the  thin  sheet,  which  has  now  shape,  but  not 
consistence,  upon  soft  felt,  which  is  placed  on  the  ground  to  receive  it. 


MANUFACTURE    OF    PAPER.  147 

On  that  is  placed  another  piece  of  felt,  and  then  another  sheet  of  paper, 
and  so  on,  till  they  have  made  a  pile  of  forty  or  fifty.  They  are  then 
pressed  with  a  large  screw-press,  moved  by  a  long  lever,  which  forcibly 
squeezes  the  water  out  of  them,  and  gives  them  immediate  consistence. 
There  is  still,  however,  a  great  deal  to  be  done.  The  felts  are  taken  off, 
and  thrown  on  one  side,  and  the  paper  on  the  other,  whence  it  is  dexter- 
ously taken  up  with  an  instrument  in  the  form  of  a  T,  three  sheets  at  a 
time,  and  hung  on  lines  to  dry.  There  it  hangs  for  a  week  or  ten  days, 
which  likewise  further  whitens  it ;  and  any  knots  and  roughness  it  may 
have  are  picked  off  carefully  by  the  women.  It  is  then  sized.  Size  is  a 
kind  of  glue ;  and  without  this  preparation  the  paper  would  not  bear  ink ; 
it  would  run  and  blot  as  you  see  it  does  on  gray  paper.  The  sheets  are 
just  dipped  into  the  size  and  taken  out  again.  The  exact  degree  of  sizing 
is  a  matter  of  nicety,  which  can  only  be  known  by  experience.  They  are 
then  hung  up  again  to  dry,  and  when  dry,  taken  to  the  finishing-room, 
where  they  are  examined  anew,  pressed  in  the  dry-presses,  which  give 
them  their  last  gloss  and  smoothness  \  counted  up  into  quires,  made  up 
into  reams,  and  sent  to  the  stationer's,  from  whom  we  have  it,  after  he  has 
folded  it  again  and  cut  the  edges ;  some  too  he  makes  to  shine  like  satin, 
by  hot-pressing  it,  or  glossing  it  with  hot  plates.  The  whole  process  of 
papermaking  takes  about  three  weeks. 

Har.  It  is  a  very  curious  process  indeed.  I  shall  almost  scruple  for  the 
future  to  blacken  a  sheet  of  paper  with  a  careless  scrawl,  now  I  know 
how  much  pains  it  costs  to  make  it  so  white  and  beautiful. 

Fa.  It  is  true  that  there  is  hardly  anything  we  use  with  so  much  waste  and 
profusion  as  this  manufacture :  we  should  think  ourselves  confined  in  the 
use  of  it,  if  we  might  not  tear,  disperse,  and  destroy  it  in  a  thousand  ways ; 
so  that  it  is  really  astonishing  whence  linen  enough  can  be  procured  to 
answer  so  vast  a  demand.  As  to  the  coarse  brown  papers,  of  which  an 
astonishing  quantity  is  used  by  every  shopkeeper  in  packages,  &c,  these 
are  made  chiefly  of  oakum,  that  is,  old  hempen  ropes.  A  fine  paper  is 
made  in  China  of  silk. 

Har.  I  have  heard  lately  of  woven  paper ;  pray,  what  is  that  ?  they 
cannot  weave  paper,  surely  ! 

Fa.  Your  question  is  very  natural.  In  order  to  answer  it,  I  must  desire 
you  to  take  a  sheet  of  common  paper,  and  hold  it  up  against  the  light. 
Do  not  you  see  marks  in  it  ? 

Har.  I  see  a  great  many  white  lines  running  along  lengthwise,  like 


148  TWELFTH    EVENING. 

ribs,  and  smaller  that  cross  them.  I  see,  too,  letters  and  the  figure  of  a 
crown. 

Fa.  These  are  all  the  marks  of  the  wires ;  the  thickness  of  the  wire 
prevents  so  much  of  the  pulp  lying  upon  the  sheet  in  those  places, 
consequently  wherever  the  wires  are  the  paper  is  thinner,  and  you  see 
the  light  through  more  readily,  which  gives  that  appearance  of  white  lines. 
The  letters,  too,  are  worked  in  the  wire,  and  are  the  maker's  name.  Now,  to 
prevent  these  lines,  which  take  off  from  the  beauty  of  the  paper,  particularly 
of  drawing-paper,  there  have  been  lately  used  moulds  of  brass  wire, 
exceeding  fine,  of  equal  thickness,  and  woven  or  latticed  one  within  another : 
the  marks  therefore  of  these  are  easily  pressed  out,  so  as  to  be  hardly 
visible ;  if  you  look  at  this  sheet  you  will  see  it  is  quite  smooth. 

Har.  It  is  so. 

Fa.  I  should  mention  to  you,  that  there  is  a  discovery  very  lately  made, 
by  which  they  can  make  paper  equal  to  any  in  whiteness,  of  the  coarsest 
brown  rags,  and  even  of  died  cotton ;  which  they  have  till  now  been 
obliged  to  throw  by  for  inferior  purposes. 

Har.  That  is  like  what  you  told  me  before  of  bleaching  cloth  in  a  few 
hours. 

Fa.  It  is  indeed  founded  upon  the  same  discovery.  The  paper  made  of 
these  brown  rags  is  likewise  more  valuable,  from  being  very  tough  and 
strong,  almost  like  parchment. 

Har.  When  was  the  making  of  paper  found  out? 

Fa.  It  is  a  disputed  point,  but  probably  in  the  fourteenth  century.  The 
invention  has  been  of  almost  equal  consequence  to  literature  with  that  of 
printing  itself;  and  shows  how  the  arts  and  sciences,  like  children  of  the 
same  family,  mutually  assist  and  bring  forward  each  other. 

THE  TWO  ROBBERS. 

Scene — Alexander  the  Great  in  his  tent.  Guards.  A  man  with  a 
fierce  countenance,  chained  and  fettered,  brought  before  him. 

Alex.  What,  art  thou  the  Thracian  robber  of  whose  exploits  I  have 
heard  so  much  ? 

Rob.  I  am  a  Thracian  and  a  soldier. 

A.  A  soldier! — a  thief,  a  plunderer,  an  assassin !  the  pest  of  the  country ! 

could  honour  thy  courage,  but  I  must  detest  and  punish  thy  crimes. 

R.  What  have  I  done,  of  which  you  can  complain  ? 


THE    TWO    ROBBERS.  149 

A.  Hast  tnou  not  set  at  defiance  my  authority,  violated  the  public  peace, 
and  passed  thy  life  in  injuring  the  persons  and  properties  of  thy  fellow- 
subjects  ? 

R.  Alexander,  I  am  your  captive — I  must  hear  what  you  please  to  say, 
and  endure  what  you  please  to  inflict.  But  my  soul  is  unconquered ;  and 
if  I  reply  at  all  to  your  reproaches,  I  will  reply  like  a  free  man. 

A.  Speak  freely.  Far  be  it  from  me  to  take  the  advantage  of  my 
power  to  silence  those  with  whom  I  deign  to  converse  ! 

R.  I  must  then  answer  your  question  by  another.  How  have  you  passed 
your  life  1 

A.  Like  a  hero.  Ask  Fame  and  she  will  tell  you.  Among  the  brave, 
I  have  been  the  bravest ;  among  sovereigns,  the  noblest :  among  conquerors 
the  mightiest. 

i?.  And  does  not  fame  speak  of  me,  too  ?  Was  there  ever  a  bolder 
captain  of  a  more  valiant  band  ?  Was  there  ever — but  I  scorn  to  boast. 
You  yourself  know  that  I  have  not  been  easily  subdued. 

A.  Still,  what  are  you  but  a  robber — a  base  dishonest  robber  1 

R.  And  what  is  a  conqueror  1  Have  not  you,  too,  gone  about  the  earth 
like  an  evil  genius,  blasting  the  fair  fruits  of  peace  and  industry ; — 
plundering,  ravaging,  killing  without  law,  without  justice,  merely  to 
gratify  an  insatiable  lust  for  dominion  ?  All  that  I  have  done  to  a  single 
district  with  a  hundred  followers,  you  have  done  to  whole  nations  with  a 
hundred  thousand.  If  I  have  stripped  individuals,  you  have  ruined  kings 
and  princes.  If  I  have  burnt  a  few  hamlets,  you  have  desolated  the 
most  flourishing  kingdoms  and  cities  of  the  earth.  What  is  then  the 
difference,  but  that  as  you  were  born  a  king,  and  I  a  private  man,  you 
have  been  able  to  become  a  mightier  robber  than  I  ? 

A.  But  if  I  have  taken  like  a  king,  I  have  given  like  a  king.  If  I  have 
subverted  empires,  I  have  founded  greater.  I  have  cherished  arts, 
commerce,  and  philosophy. 

R.  I,  too,  have  freely  given  to  the  poor  what  I  took  from  the  rich.  I 
have  established  order  and  discipline  among  the  most  ferocious  of  man- 
kind ;  and  have  stretched  out  my  protecting  arm  over  the  oppressed.  I 
know,  indeed,  little  of  the  philosophy  you  talk  of;  but  I  believe  neither 
you  nor  I  shall  ever  repay  to  the  world  the  mischiefs  we  have  done  it. 

A.  Leave  me — take  off  his  chains,  and  use  him  well.  {Exit  robber.) 
Are  we  then  so  much  alike  ?— Alexander  to  a  robber  ?— Let  me  reflect. 


EVENING  XIII. 


THE  COUNCIL  OF  QUADRUPEDS. 

Among  the  large  branches  of  an  aged  oak,  which  grew  in  the  midst  ot 
a  thick  wood,  lived  once  upon  a  time  a  wildcat.  In  that  tree  she  was 
born  and  brought  up,  and  had  nursed  many  litters  of  kittens ;  her  mother 
and  her  grandmother,  had  lived  there  before  her ;  indeed,  I  believe  that, 
as  long  as  the  oak  had  been  an  oak,  this  family  of  wildcats  had  made  it 
their  home. 

One  day,  as  she  was  couching  among  some  bushes  near  the  foot  of 
her  tree,  watching  her  opportunity  to  spring  upon  any  poor  little   bird 

150 


COUNCIL    OF    QUADRUPEDS.  151 

who  might  happen  to  alight  within  her  reach,  she  heard  a  great  rustling 
m  the  thicket,  and  presently  two  men  pushed  their  way  through,  and 
stood  before  her.  This  part  of  the  forest  was  so  tangled  and  wild,  and  so 
far  from  any  human  habitation,  that  it  was  a  rare  thing  to  see  men  there, 
and  the  cat  wondered  very  much  why  they  came  ;  so  she  lay  quite  still  in 
her  hiding-place,  watching  them  and  listening  to  hear  what  they  should 
say.  She  soon  discovered  that  they  were  woodcutters,  for  each  was 
armed  with  an  axe,  which  he  carried  upon  his  shoulder. 

Presently  one  said  to  his  fellow,  "Is  it  all  to  be  cut  down?" — "All  the 
whole  forest,"  answered  the  other,  "  and  the  ground  is  to  be  ploughed  up 
and  sown  with  corn,  but  the  largest  trees  are  to  be  felled  first." — "  If  that 
be  the  case,"  said  the  first,  "  we  cannot  begin  better  than  with  this  noble 
oak  before  us,  and  I  will  put  a  mark  on  it  that  we  may  know  it  again." 
So  saying,  he  pulled  out  a  piece  of  chalk,  and  made  a  large  white  cross 
on  the  bark  of  the  poor  cat's  own  tree.  "  Next  week,"  added  he,  "  we  will 
lay  the  axe  to  the  root."   And  he  walked  on,  whistling  with  great  unconcern. 

The  unfortunate  cat  lay  a  long  time  on  the  ground,  half  dead  with  grief 
and  terror,  and  unable  to  move  a  limb.  At  length,  after  uttering  several 
cries  so  loud  and  shrill  that  the  whole  forest  seemed  to  ring  again,  she 
started  up,  and  ran  like  one  distracted  to  spread  the  dismal  news  among 
her  neighbours  of  the  wood.  The  first  creature  that  she  met  was  the  stag : 
he  had  just  started  up  from  his  lair,  amid  the  thickest  cover,  and  stood 
listening,  ready  to  bound  away  on  the  first  appearance  of  danger.  "  Was 
it  you,  neighbour  puss,"  cried  he,  "who  set  up  that  frightful  yell  which  I 
heard  ?  I  almost  thought  the  hounds  and  hunters  were  upon  me ; — but 
what  is  the  matter?" — "  Matter  enough,"  answered  the  cat;  "  worse  than 
either  hounds  or  hunters  ;  the  forest  is  to  be  cut  down."  And  she  told 
him  her  sad  story.  "  The  forest  cut  down !"  brayed  out  the  poor  stag, 
while  the  tears  ran  in  large  drops  down  his  hairy  face ;  "  and  what  is  to 
become  of  me  and  you,  and  all  our  neighbours?  Man  has  always  been 
my  enemy,  but  this  is  a  stroke  of  cruelty  which  I  did  not  expect  even  from 
him.  Is  there  no  help,  no  remedy  ?" — "  I  will  fight  for  my  tree,"  cried 
the  cat,  "  as  long  as  teeth  and  claws  hold  good :  and  you  with  your  great 
horns  may  surely  defend  your  own  thicket ;  but  this  man  is  a  terrible 
creature,  and  he  has  so  many  crafty  tricks,  that  I  know  nobody,  except  the 
fox,  who  is  at  all  a  match  for  him ;  suppose  we  run  and  ask  his  advice." 
"  With  all  my  heart,"  said  the  stag ;  and  they  marched  away  together  in 
search  of  him. 


152  THIRTEENTH    EVENING. 

The  fox  had  his  abode  near  the  skirts  of  the  forest,  in  the  middle  of  a 
dry  bank,  thickly  covered  with  bushes  and  brambles.  His  hole  was  bur- 
rowed deep  into  the  earth,  and  cunningly  contrived  with  several  openings 
on  different  sides,  by  which  he  might  make  his  escape  in  case  of  danger. 
The  cat  put  her  head  in  at  one  of  the  entrances,  and  called  to  him  to 
come  out ;  but  it  was  not  till  he  had  carefully  peeped  about,  and  thor- 
oughly satisfied  himself  that  all  was  safe,  that  cunning  Reynard  ventured 
to  trust  himself  abroad. 

In  great  distress  the  stag  related  the  cause  of  their  coming.  I  have 
heard  something  of  this  matter  before,"  replied  the  fox ;  but  you  are  too 
condescending  to  come  and  ask  the  advice  of  a  simple  creature  like  myself, 
who  never  yet  knew  what  policy  or  artifice  meant,  and — "  Here  the  cat  and 
the  stag  eagerly  interrupted  him,  and  with  one  voice  began  to  compliment 
him  on  the  sagacity  and  wisdom  for  which  all  the  world  gave  him  credit, 
declaring  that  their  whole  hope  and  consolation  rested  on  his  counsels. 
"  Well,"  returned  the  fox,  "  since  you  will  have  it  so,  though  I  blush  to 
utter  my  poor  thoughts  before  beasts  so  much  my  superiors,  I  will  venture 
with  all  humility  to  suggest,  that  a  general  meeting  be  immediately 
summoned  of  all  the  animals  of  the  forest,  in  order  that  we  may  take 
our  measures  in  concert,  and  after  hearing  the  opinions  of  all." 

"  An  excellent  proposal !"  cried  the  stag.  "  An  excellent  proposal !" 
echoed  the  cat ;  "  but  who  shall  we  send  to  call  them  all  together  ?" — "  I 
would  go  to  them  myself,"  replied  the  fox,  "  but  it  is  possible  that  some 
of  the  smaller  animals  might  doubt  the  innocence  of  my  intentions,  and 
refuse  to  come;  for  I  have  been  a  much  calumniated  creature.  The  same 
thing  might  happen  with  you,  neighbour  Puss  ;  the  squirrel  and  the  mouse 

especially." "  True,"  cried  the   cat,  "  they   would,  perhaps,  be 

taking  some  idle  notions  into  their  heads." "And  as  to  my  lord 

the  stag,"  rejoined  Reynard,  "  he  is  a  beast  of  far  too  exalted  a  rank  for 
such  an  office.  Stay,  there  is  my  worthy  friend  the  hedgehog,  suppose 
we  send  him ;  a  little  slow  of  foot,  to  be  sure,  and  not  wonderfully  bright ; 
but  a  plain  honest  creature  as  any  that  lives,  well  spoken  of  throughout 
the  forest,  and  the  enemy  of  no  one,  except  indeed  of  the  flies  and  the 
beetles ;  but  we  do  not  call  the  insects  to  council,  of  course." — "  Of  course," 
rejoined  the  cat ;  "  but  what  shall  we  say  to  the  reptiles  ?" — "  Why,  as  to 
my  neighbour  the  viper,"  returned  the  fox,  "  I  own  I  am  inclined  to  think 
favourably  of  him,  whatever  some  may  whisper  to  his  disadvantage  ;  his 
temper  indeed  may  be  none  of  the  mildest,  but  he  knows  how  to  make 


COUNCIL    OF    QUADRUPEDS.  153 

himself  respected,  and  I  think  we  must  by  no  means  leave  him  out ;  and 
if  he  is  admitted,  in  common  civility  his  cousin  the  snake  must  be  invited 
also." — "And  what  say  you  to  the  toad,  the  frog,  and  the  newt?"  asked 
the  stag.  "  Poor  creatures,"  said  the  fox  with  a  sneer,  "  your  lordship 
is  certainly  very  condescending  to  remember  the  existence  of  beings  so 
inferior.  They  sit  in  our  council,  truly  !  However,  I  would  by  no  means 
give  offence,  at  a  time  like  this,  even  to  the  meanest — they  may  be 
permitted  to  hear  the  debate,  provided  they  do  not  presume  to  speak 
among  their  betters." 

The  fox  now  called  in  a  somewhat  imperious  tone  to  the  hedgehog  to 
come  forth.  At  the  sound  of  his  voice,  the  little  creature  roused  himself 
with  some  difficulty  from  his  morning's  nap,  and  hastily  unrolling 
himself  and  clearing  his  prickly  coat  from  the  grass  and  dead  leaves  that 
stuck  in  it,  and  added  not  a  little  to  his  rude,  slovenly  appearance,  he 
crept  out  from  his  hole  under  the  roots  of  a  tree,  and  inquired  with  much 
humility  what  Mr.  Reynard  wanted  with  him.  The  fox  explained  in  few 
words  the  alarming  occurrence  of  the  morning,  and  thus  proceeded  to  give 
the  hedgehog  his  orders  : — 

"You  are  to  summon  all  our  good  neighbours  to  meet  this  evening,  an 
hour  before  sunset,  under  the  great  yew-tree  that  stands  by  itself  near  the 
centre  of  the  wood.  Please  to  attend,  and  I  will  name  them  to  you  in 
their  order,  that  you  may  make  no  mistakes.  First,  you  turn  down  into 
yonder  dingle,  and  there,  just  beyond  the  old  poplar  which  is  blown  up  by 
the  roots  and  lies  across  the  way,  look  very  sharp,  and  in  a  snug  sheltered 
nook  you  will  spy  a  hole  running  down  into  the  steep  bank ;  at  the  bottom 
of  it  you  will  find  the  badger.  Beg  him  to  come  without  fail;  excepting 
the  present  company  there  is  no  animal  in  the  forest  of  greater  size  and 
consequence,  nor  whom  I  respect  more.  A  little  lower  down,  on  the  very 
brink  of  the  stream,  lives  my  cousin  the  polecat ; — a  damp  situation,  I 
should  think,  but  they  say  he  sometimes  amuses  himself  with  fishing.  He 
is  a  sharp  fellow ;  we  must  by  all  means  have  him  at  our  council. 

"  The  weasel  comes  next,  and  you  will  find  him  in  a  hollow  tree  not 
far  off.  If  the  squirrel  be  not  frolicking  as  usual  among  the  boughs  of  the 
large  beech  in  which  he  has  his  nest,  nuts  are  now  ripe,  and  you  must 
look  for  him  in  the  hazel-copse  on  the  left.  If  I  do  not  mistake,  you  will 
also  find  the  dormouse  lodged  under  the  roots  of  that  large  oak  hard  by 
which  is  so  full  of  acorns ;  and  the  woodmouse  is  his  next-door  neighbour. 

"  You  must  then  turn  off  toward  the  edge  of  the  forest,  and  search 


154  THIRTEENTH    EVENING. 

among  the  fern-brakes  till  you  find  the  hare ;  she  sits  close  in  her  form  all 
day.  Assure  her  that  we  are  extremely  desirous  of  her  company;  and  if 
she,  or  any  other  of  our  good  neighbours,  should  make  the  smallest  scruple 
of  meeting  puss  or  myself,  be  sure  to  mention  that  my  lord  the  stag  passes 
his  word  for  their  safety,  both  coming  and  returning.  The  snake  will 
probably  be  sunning  himself  on  the  grass  a  little  lower  down ;  and  in  the 
dry  part  of  the  wood  above,  if  you  look  narrowly,  you  will  spy  the  viper 
lurking  among  the  dead  leaves.     And  now  you  may  be  gone." 

The  hedgehog  trudged  off  with  his  commission. 

In  the  evening  every  one  of  the  animals  made  his  appearance  under  the 
yew-tree,  except  the  little  lazy  dormouse,  who  had  just  opened  his  eyes 
when  the  hedgehog  delivered  his  message,  then  turned  himself  round, 
fallen  asleep  again,  and  forgotten  the  whole  matter. 

As  undoubted  lord  of  the  forest,  the  stag  took  the  upper  place ;  puss 
seated  herself  on  his  right,  and  Reynard  on  his  left ;  the  others  placed 
themselves  in  due  order  below.  The  stag  opened  the  business  of  the  day 
by  calling  upon  the  cat  to  relate  what  she  had  that  morning  seen  and 
heard.  Immediately,  the  afflicted  creature  yelled  out  her  dismal  tale, 
ending  with  a  long  and  melancholy  mew  which  was  echoed  by  every 
animal  present  in  his  own  note;  the  stag  brayed,  the  fox  howled,  the 
polecat  and  weasel  cried,  the  badger  and  squirrel  growled,  the  snake  and 
viper  hissed,  the  hare  screamed,  and  the  mouse  squeaked.  When  the 
din  of  these  discordant  noises  had  a  little  subsided,  "My  friends,"  said 
the  stag,  "  lamentations  are  in  vain,  let  us  now  consider  what  is  to  be 
done ;  shall  we  look  on  in  tame  submission  to  see  our  native  wood  levelled 
with  the  earth,  and  ourselves  turned  out  upon  the  wide  world  to  seek  for 
food  and  shelter  wherever  we  may  find  them,  or  shall  we  not  rather  all 
join  to  defend  it  with  such  weapons  as  nature  has  given  us  ?  Let  the 
cat  speak  first." 

"  I  am  for  open  war,"  cried  puss ;  "  these  teeth  and  these  talons  were 
not  bestowed  upon  me  for  nothing  ;"  (and  as  she  spoke  she  unsheathed  a 
set  of  claws  at  sight  of  which  the  mouse  and  the  squirrel  trembled  all 
over.)  "  The  first  man  who  attacks  my  tree  shall  feel  them  in  his  eyes ; 
I  will  defend  my  native  home  as  long  as  I  have  breath  in  my  body.  Who 
is  of  the  same  mind  ?" 

"  Reynard,  let  us  hear  your  opinion,"  said  the  stag.  "I  beg  to  speak 
last,"  said  the  crafty  fox ;  "perhaps  I  have  not  yet  made  up  my  opinion." 

"  For  my  part,"  growled  out  the  badger,  thrusting  forward  his  clumsy 


COUNCIL    OF    QUADRUPEDS.  155 

person  as  he  spoke,  "  I  am  not  so  cunning  as  some  folks ;  I  speak  my 
mind  and  care  for  nobody ;  and  I  have  only  this  to  say — that  I  never 
attack  first,  but  I  have  strong  teeth  and  a  tough  hide ;  and  if  anybody 
attempts  to  turn  me  out  of  my  den,  whether  man,  dog,  or  any  other  beast, 
1  shall  try  to  make  him  repent  it." 

It  was  observed  that  the  badger,  as  he  spoke,  threw  a  sullen  look  at  the 
fox,  which  plainly  showed  that  he  had  not  forgotten  the  knavish  trick  by 
which  Reynard  had  once  contrived  to  turn  him  out  of  a  hole  which  he  had 
dug  with  the  labours  of  his  own  claws,  and  to  keep  possession  of  it  for 
himself. 

The  viper  now  glided  forward  in  easy  curves,  and  coiling  himself  up, 
and  darting  out  his  forked  tongue  in  a  threatening  attitude,  u  Man,"  said 
he,  "  is  my  enemy,  and  I  am  his ;  let  him  set  foot  in  my  dominions  if  he 
dares  ;  I  have  a  venom  in  my  fangs  which  will  soon  teach  him  that  my 
anger  is  not  to  be  despised." 

"  I,"  murmured  out  the  snake,  "  have  no  venom  to  boast ;  I  am  an 
innocent  and  defenceless  creature,  and  I  own  that  so  far  from  attempting 
to  resist  the  invader,  I  shall  quickly  retreat  from  his  approach.  Nature, 
in  her  bounty,  has  endued  me  with  the  power  of  swimming;  and  when  I 
can  no  longer  find  a  shelter  beneath  these  quiet  shades,  I  shall  plunge 
into  the  stream  which  bounds  our  domain,  and  seek  a  safer  retreat  among 
the  tall  weeds  which  flourish  on  its  farther  shore." 

"  As  for  me,"  feebly  screamed  out  the  hare,  as  she  limped  forth,  staring 
around  her  with  a  look  of  affright,  u  all  the  world  must  be  aware  how 
weak  and  timid  a  creature  I  am.  It  has  been  said  that  I  have  many 
friends,  but  I  have  never  yet  found  a  protector,  and  cruel  and  powerful 
enemies  lie  in  wait  for  my  harmless  life  on  every  side.  What  will 
become  of  me  I  know  not,  probably  some  evil  end  awaits  me  ;  but  I  shall 
use  these  nimble  legs,  my  only  hope  of  safety,  to  bear  me  far  away  from 
the  dreadful  sight  of  man." 

The  sprightly  squirrel  came  forward  with  a  bound.  "  I  have  teeth," 
cried  he,  "  very  able  to  crack  a  nut,  and  claws  by  which  I  can  cling  fast 
enough  to  a  bough,  but  how  am  I  to  contend  against  the  mighty  power  of 
man  ?  He  would  twist  off  my  poor  little  head  before  I  could  draw  one 
drop  of  blood  from  his  finger.  It  is  true  that  I  can  live  only  in  trees, 
and  one  might  as  well  die  fighting  as  pine  away  with  misery  and 
hunger;  but  I  have  better  things  in  view  than  either.  From  the  summit 
of  my  beech,  I  have  often  observed,  at  some  distance  on  the  farther  side 


156  THIRTEENTH    EVENING. 

of  the  river,  a  group  of  noble  chestnuts  growing  in  a  park,  which  would 
supply  me  both  with  food  and  lodging.  I  have  also  discovered  a  spot 
where  two  trees  on  opposite  sides  of  the  stream  stretch  forth  their  arms, 
and  nearly  meet  above: — I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  the  adventure  ;  one 
bold  leap  will  bear  me  safely,  I  hope,  to  the  farther  shore,  and  the  new 
and  beautiful  country  that  lies  beyond  it." 

"  I  believe,"  squeaked  a  small  shrill  voice  which  was  found  to  proceed 
from  the  mouse,  "  that  my  services  would  be  of  small  importance  in  a 
war  against  mankind;  and  I  do  not  offer  them.  To  say  the  truth,  I  find 
myself,  on  second  thoughts,  not  greatly  concerned  in  this  affair.  If  I  lose 
my  nuts  and  acorns  by  the  fall  of  the  trees,  I  shall  get  wheat,  barley,  and 
oats,  in  exchange,  which  are  not  worse  eating,  and  I  can  lodge  full  as 
well  in  the  middle  of  a  corn-rick  as  under  the  roots  of  a  tree. — Every  one 
for  himself  in  this  world." 

"  Our  little  friend  is  much  in  the  right,"  cried  the  weasel ;  "  I  really 
believe  that  we  shall  find  vastly  comfortable  lodging  about  barns  and  farm- 
houses, and  the  very  thought  of  a  poultry-yard  makes  my  mouth  water : 
for  such  an  exchange  I  should  not  object  to  giving  up  my  quarters  in  the 
wood  to-morrow." — "  Nor  I,  I  protest,"  exclaimed  the  polecat.  "  Hens' 
eggs  are  not  bad  things,  and  how  delicious  to  fatten  on  the  blood  of  turkeys, 
geese,  and  chickens  !  A  forest  is  not  absolutely  necessary  to  me ;  I  can 
hide  myself  well  enough  in  a  hedge,  or  under  a  ditch-bank." 

"  Reynard,"  said  the  stag,  u  all  have  spoken  now  but  you,  and  we  are 
impatient  for  your  opinion." 

The  fox  arose,  cast  his  eyes  on  the  ground  with  an  air  of  great  modesty, 
and  after  pausing  a  few  moments,  as  if  to  gain  courage  to  speak,  he  thus 
began,  gracefully  waving  his  long  bushy  tail  as  he  spoke : — "  While  I 
listened  to  the  warlike  eloquence  of  the  cat,  to  the  indignant  harangue  of 
the  viper,  and  to  the  resolute  speech  of  my  worthy  friend,  the  badger,  I 
like  them,  felt  myself  inspired  with  the  valiant  resolution  to  die  in  defence 
of  our  native  wood,  and  in  open  war  with  man.  But  when  I  afterward 
began  to  consider  the  weakness  of  our  lesser  brethren,  the  smallness  of 
our  numbers,  and  the  wonderful  power  and  resources  of  man,  I  was  induced 
to  change  my  opinion.  We  cannot  hope  for  victory,  why  should  we  throw 
away  our  lives  ?  The  viper,  in  spite  of  his  courage  and  his  venom,  would 
be  caught  by  the  neck  in  a  cleft  stick,  and  put  ingloriously  to  death  very 
likely  before  he  had  been  able  to  inflict  a  single  bite.  The  badger  is  a 
favourite  object  of  the  cruelty  of  man;  he  would  set  upon  him  his  whole 


COUNCIL    OF    QUADRUPEDS.  ^57 

troop  of  dogs,  hateful  brutes,  who  are  always  joined  in  league  with  him 
against  their  fellow  beasts ! — and  though  my  worthy  friend  would  fight 
like  a  hero,  and  kill  or  maim  several  of  them,  he  would  at  length  be  torn 
in  pieces.  Of  what  avail  would  be  the  teeth  and  claws  of  the  cat  against 
that  thunder  and  lightning  by  which  man  has  the  art  of  killing  from  afar  1 
She  would  be  brought  down  from  her  highest  bough  pierced  through  the 
head  or  the  heart,  before  she  could  even  see  that  enemy  whose  eyes  she 
threatens  to  tear  out  with  her  talons.  Even  you  yourself,  my  lord  stag, 
would  assuredly  fall  by  the  teeth  of  those  detestable  hounds  after  you  had 
gored  three  or  four  of  the  pack.  I  therefore  propose  more  cautious  meas- 
ures. Not  far  off  is  a  wide  unfrequented  common,  where  the  badger  may 
dig  himself  a  den  and  remain  at  peace,  and  where  the  viper  may  glide 
undisturbed  among  the  heath  and  gorse.  I  have  scarcely  given  a  thought 
to  the  humble  concerns  of  my  insignificant  self;  but  perhaps  I  too  may 
find  some  cover  in  that  neglected  tract,  which  abounds  also  in  wild 
rabbits.  For  you,  my  lord  stag,  you  have  only  to  swim  the  stream  to  find 
yourself,  like  the  squirrel,  in  a  noble  park  where  man  himself  would  be 
proud  to  become  your  protector,  and  own  you  for  the  noblest  ornament 
of  his  domain.  And  why  should  not  puss  offer  her  services  to  hunt  the 
mice  and  rats  at  some  snug  farmhouse  in  the  neighbourhood  ?" 

"  I !"  interrupted  puss,  setting  up  her  back  and  swelling  in  sudden 
anger,  "  I  become  a  fawning  menial  in  the  dwellings  of  man,  like  those 
miserable  little  foreigners  who  have  sometimes  appeared  in  my  sight, 
and  whom  I  am  ashamed  to  own  for  cats !  No,  I  am  a  beast  of  prey,  a 
free  native  of  the  English  woods,  and  such  I  will  live  and  die.  Man 
may  hunt  me  down,  he  may  destroy  my  whole  race,  as  he  has  already 
hunted  down  and  destroyed  the  bear  and  the  wolf,  animals  much  my 
superiors  in  size  and  in  strength ;  but  I  disdain  to  become  his  household 
servant,  or  to  skulk,  like  some  of  vermin  breed,  about  his  outhouses,  and 
poultry-yards,  picking  up  a  base  living  by  theft  and  rapine.  And  you, 
Reynard,  crafty  knave  as  you  are,  do  you  think  I  do  not  see  through  your 
tricks  and  your  pretences  ?  You  too,  like  the  weasel  and  polecat,  have 
an  eye  on  the  poultry -yard  and  the  sheepfold ;  you  live  by  man  though  he 
hates  you,  and  endeavours  to  destroy  you,  and  you  care  not  what  becomes 
of  the  lives  or  liberty  of  nobler  animals :  but  I  will  reach  your  eyes  at 
least,  and  teach  you  what  it  is  to  provoke  me."  So  saying,  she  flew  at 
him  in  a  fury :  her  first  attack  brought  him  to  the  ground,  and  he  was 
almost  blinded  before  he  could  strike  a  blow  in  his  own  defence.     The 


158  THIRTEENTH    EVENING. 

polecat  and  weasel,  thinking  their  turns  would  come  next,  slunk  away ; 
the  hare  and  the  smaller  animals  followed  their  example ;  even  the  stag 
himself  was  seized  with  a  panic  and  fled.  The  badger  alone  stood  and 
looked  on  with  great  composure  at  the  distress  of  Reynard.  At  length, 
the  fox,  seeing  puss  almost  out  of  breath,  made  a  desperate  effort  and 
broke  loose  from  her  clutches.  With  his  usual  cunning  he  ran  toward 
the  river,  well  knowing  that  the  cat  would  not  wet  her  feet.  He  plunged 
into  the  water  before  she  could  overtake  him,  and  swimming  with  some 
difficulty  to  the  opposite  side,  threw  himself  on  the  bank  half  dead  with 
pain  and  fright.  Puss  returned  to  her  tree  disappointed  and  sullen ;  and 
thus  unprofitably  ended  the  Council  of  Quadrupeds. 

TIT  FOR  TAT.— A  Tale. 

A  Law  there  is  of  ancient  fame, 

By  Nature's  self  in  every  land  implanted, 
Lex  Talionis  is  its  Latin  name ; 

But  if  an  English  term  we  wanted, 
Give  your  next  neighbour  but  a  pat, 
He'll  give  you  back  as  good,  and  tell  you — tit  for  tat. 

This  tit  for  tat,  it  seems,  not  men  alone, 
But  elephants,  for  legal  justice  own  ; 
In  proof  of  this  a  story  I  shall  tell  ye, 
Imported  from  the  famous  town  of  Delhi. 

A  mighty  elephant  that  swell'd  the  state 

Of  Aurengzebe  the  Great, 

One  day  was  taken  by  his  driver, 

To  drink  and  cool  him  in  the  river; 

The  driver  on  his  neck  was  seated, 

And,  as  he  rode  along, 

By  some  acquaintance  in  the  throng 

With  a  ripe  cocoa-nut  was  treated. 
• 

A  cocoa-nut's  a  pretty  fruit  enough, 

But  guarded  by  a  shell,  both  hard  and  tough. 

The  fellow  tried,  and  tried,  and  tried, 

Working  and  sweating, 


TIT    FOR   TAT.  159 

Pishing  and  fretting, 
To  find  out  its  inside, 
And  pick  the  kernel  for  his  eating. 

At  length  quite  out  of  patience  grown,  ^ 

"  Who  '11  reach  me  up,"  he  cries,  "  a  stone 

To  break  this  plaguy  shell  ? 

But  stay,  I  've  here  a  solid  bone 
May  do  perhaps  as  well. 

So  half  in  earnest,  half  in  jest, 
He  bang'd  it  on  the  forehead  of  his  beast. 

An  elephant,  they  say  has  human  feeling, 

And  full  as  well  as  we  he  knows 

The  difference  between  words  and  blows, 
Between  horse-play  and  civil  dealing. 

Use  him  but  well,  he'll  do  his  best, 
And  serve  you  faithfully  and  truly ; 

But  insults  unprovoked  he  can 't  digest, 
He  studies  o'er  them,  and  repays  them  duly. 

"  To  make  my  head  an  anvil,  (thought  the  creature,) 

Was  never,  certainly,  the  will  of  Nature ; 

So,  master  mine  !  you  may  repent ;" 

Then,  shaking  his  broad  ears,  away  he  went  • 

The  driver  took  him  to  the  water, 

And  thought  no  more  about  the  matter : 
But  elephant  within  his  memory  hid  it ; 
He  felt  the  wrong, — the  other  only  did  it. 

A  week  or  two  elapsed,  one  market-day 

Again  the  beast  and  driver  took  their  way  ; 

Through  rows  of  shops  and  booths  they  pass'd 
With  eatables  and  trinkets  stored, 

Till  to  a  gard'ner's  stall  they  came  at  last, 
Where  cocoa-nuts  lay  piled  upon  the  board, — 

"  Ha!"  thought  the  elephant,  "'tis  now  my  turn 
To  show  this  method  of  nut-breaking  ; 

My  friend  above  will  like  to  learn, 
Though  at  the  cost  of  a  head-aching." 


X 


160  THIRTEENTH    EVENING. 

Then  in  his  curling  trunk  he  took  a  heap, 
And  waved  it  o'er  his  neck  a  sudden  sweep, 
And  on  the  hapless  driver's  sconce 
He  laid  a  blow  so  hard  and  full, 
That  crack'd  the  nuts  at  once, 
But  with  them  crack'd  his  scull. 

Young  folks  whene'er  you  feel  inclined 
To  rompish  sports  and  freedoms  roughs, 

Bear  tit  for  tat  in  mind, 
Nor  give  an  elephant  a  cuff, 

To  be  repaid  in  kind. 


ON  WINE  AND  SPIRITS. 

George  and  Harry,  accompanied  by  their  tutor,  went  one  day  to  pay  a 
visit  to  a  neighbouring  gentleman,  their  father's  friend.  They  were  very 
kindly  received,  and  shown  all  about  the  gardens  and  pleasure-grounds ; 
but  nothing  took  their  fancy  so  much  as  an  extensive  grapery,  hung  round 
with  bunches  of  various  kinds  fully  ripe,  and  almost  too  big  for  the  vines 
to  support.  They  were  liberally  treated  with  the  fruit,  and  carried  away 
some  bunches  to  eat  as  they  walked.  During  their  return,  as  they  were 
picking  their  grapes,  George  said  to  the  tutor,  "A  thought  is  just  come 
into  my  head,  sir.  Wine,  you  know  is  called  the  juice  of  the  grape  ;  but 
wine  is  hot,  and  intoxicates  people  that  drink  much  of  it.  Now  we  have 
had  a  good  deal  of  grape-juice  this  morning,  and  yet  I  do  not  feel  heated, 
nor  does  it  seem  at  all  to  have  got  into  our  heads.  What  is  the  reason  of 
this  ?" 

Tut.  The  reason  is,  that  grape-juice  is  not  wine,  though  wine  is  made 
from  it. 

Geo.  Pray  how  is  it  made,  then  ? 

Tut.  I  will  tell  you ;  for  it  is  a  matter  worth  knowing.  The  juice 
pressed  from  the  grapes,  called  must,  is  at  first  a  sweet  watery  liquor, 
with  a  little  tartness,  but  with  no  strength  or  spirit.  After  it  has  stood 
awhile,  it  begins  to  grow  thick  and  muddy,  it  moves  up  and  down,  and 
throws  scum  and  bubbles  of  air  to  the  surface.  This  is  called  working 
or  fermenting.  It  continues  in  this  state  for  some  time,  more  or  lessa 
according  to  the  quantity  of  the  juice  and  the  temperature  of  the  weather, 


A 


WINE    AND    SPIRITS.  161 

and  then  gradually  settles  again,  becoming  clearer  than  at  first.  It  has 
now  lost  its  sweet  flat  taste,  and  acquired  a  briskness  and  pungency,  with 
a  heating  and  intoxicating  property;  that  is,  it  has  become  wine.  This 
natural  process  is  called  the  vinous  fermentation,  and  many  liquors  be- 
sides grape-juice  are  capable  of  undergoing  it. 

Geo.  I  have  heard  of  the  working  of  beer  and  ale.  Is  that  of  the  same 
kind? 

Tut.  It  is:  and  beer  and  ale  may  properly  be  called  barley-wine;  for 
you  know  they  are  clear,  brisk,  and  intoxicating.  In  the  same  manner, 
cider  is  apple-wine,  and  mead  is  honey-wine ;  and  you  have  heard  of 
raisin-wine  and  currant-wine,  and  a  great  many  others. 

Har.  Yes,  there  is  elder-wine,  and  cowslip-wine  and  orange-wine. 

Geo.  Will  everything  of  that  sort  make  wine  ? 

Tut.  All  vegetable  juices  that  are  sweet  are  capable  of  fermenting,  and 
of  producing  a  liquor  of  a  vinous  nature ;  but  if  they  have  little  sweetness, 
the  liquor  is  proportionally  weak  and  poor,  and  is  apt  to  become  sour  or 
vapid. 

Har.  But  barley  is  not  sweet. 

Tut.  Barley  as  it  comes  from  the  ear  is  not ;  but  before  it  is  used  for 
brewing,  it  is  made  into  malt,  and  then  it  is  sensibly  sweet.  You  know 
what  malt  is  ? 

Har.  I  have  seen  heaps  of  it  in  the  malt-house,  but  I  do  not  know  how 
it  is  made. 

Tut.  Barley  is  made  malt  by  putting  it  in  heaps  and  wetting  it,  when 
it  becomes  hot,  and  swells,  and  would  sprout  out  just  as  if  it  were  sown, 
unless  it  were  then  dried  in  a  kiln.  By  this  operation  it  acquires  a  sweet 
taste.    You  have  drunk  sweet-wort  ? 

Har.  Yes. 

Tut.  Well,  this  is  made  by  steeping  malt  in  hot  water.  The  water 
extracts  and  dissolves  all  the  sweet  or  sugary  part  of  the  malt.  It  then 
becomes  like  a  naturally  sweet  juice. 

Geo.  Would  not  sugar  and  water  then  make  wine  ? 

Tut.  It  would ;  and  the  wines  made  in  England  of  our  common  fruits 
and  flowers  have  all  a  good  deal  of  sugar  in  them.  Cowslip  flowers,  for 
example,  give  little  more  than  the  flavour  to  the  wine  named  from  them, 
and  it  is  the  sugar  added  to  them  which  properly  makes  the  wine. 

Geo.  But  none  of  these  wines  are  so  good  as  grape-wine  ? 

Tut.   No.     The  grape,  from  the  richness  and  abundance  of  its  juice,  is 


.62  THIRTEENTH    EVENING. 

the  fruit  universally  preferred  for  making  wine,  where  it  comes  to  perfec- 
tion, which  it  seldom  does  in  our  climate,  except  by  means  of  artificial  heat. 

Geo.  I  suppose,  then,  grapes  are  finest  in  the  hottest  countries  ? 

Tut.  Not  so,  neither ;  they  are  properly  a  fruit  of  the  temperate  zone, 
and  do  not  grow  well  between  the  tropics.  And  in  very  hot  countries  it 
is  scarcely  possible  to  make  wines  of  any  kind  to  keep,  for  they  ferment  so 
strongly  as  to  turn  sour  almost  immediately. 

Geo.  I  think  I  have  read  of  palm-wine  on  the  coast  of  Guinea. 

Tut.  Yes.  A  sweet  juice  flows  abundantly  from  incisions  in  certain 
species  of  the  palm;  which  ferments  immediately,  and  makes  a  very 
pleasant  sort  of  weak  wine.  But  it  must  be  drunk  the  same  day  it  is 
made,  for  on  the  next  it  is  as  sour  as  vinegar. 

Geo.  What  is  vinegar — is  it  not  sour  wine  ? 

Tut.  Everything  that  makes  wine  will  make  vinegar  also;  and  the 
stronger  the  wine  the  stronger  the  vinegar.  The  vinous  fermentation 
must  be  first  brought  on,  but  it  need  not  produce  perfect  wine,  for  when 
the  intention  is  to  make  vinegar,  the  liquor  is  kept  still  warm,  and  it  goes 
on  without  stopping  to  another  kind  of  fermentation,  called  the  acetous, 
the  product  of  which  is  vinegar. 

Geo.  I  have  heard  of  alegar.     I  suppose  that  is  vinegar  made  of  ale. 

Tut.  It  is — but  as  ale  is  not  so  strong  as  wine,  the  vinegar  made  from 
it  is  not  so  sharp  or  perfect.  But  housewives  make  good  vinegar  with 
sugar  and  water. 

Har.  Will  vinegar  make  people  drunk  if  they  take  too  much  of  it  ? 

Tut.  No  :  the  wine  loses  its  intoxicating  quality  as  well  as  its  taste  on 
turning  to  vinegar. 

Geo.  What  are  spirituous  liquors — have  they  not  something  to  do  with 
wine  ? 

Tut.  Yes :  they  consist  of  the  spirituous  or  intoxicating  part  of  wine 
separated  from  the  rest.  You  may  remember  that,  on  talking  of  distilla- 
tion, I  told  you  that  it  was  the  raising  of  a  liquor  in  steam  or  vapour,  and 
condensing  it  again ;  and  that  some  liquors  were  more  easily  turned  to 
vapour  than  others,  and  were  therefore  called  more  volatile  or  evaporable. 
Now,  wine  is  a  mixed  or  compound  liquor,  of  which  the  greater  part  is 
water ;  but  what  heats  and  intoxicates  is  vinous  spirit.  This  spirit  being 
much  more  volatile  than  water,  on  the  application  of  a  gentle  heat,  flies  off 
in  vapour,  and  may  be  collected  by  itself  in  distilling  vessels  ; — and  thus 
are  made  spirituous  liquors. 


X 


WINE    AND    SPIRITS.  163 

Geo.  Will  everything  that  you  called  wine  yield  spirits  ? 

Tut.  Yes :  everything  that  has  undergone  the  vinous  fermentation. 
Thus,  in  England  a  great  deal  of  malt  spirit  is  made  from  a  kind  of  wort 
brought  into  fermentation,  and  then  set  directly  to  distil,  without  first 
making  ale  or  beer  of  it.  Gin  is  a  spirituous  liquor  also  got  from  corn,  and 
flavoured  with  juniper  berries.  Even  potatoes,  carrots,  and  turnips,  may 
be  made  to  afford  spirits,  by  first  fermenting  their  juices.  In  the  West 
Indies,  rum  is  distilled  from  the  dregs  of  the  sugarcanes,  washed  out  by 
water  and  fermented.  But  brandy  is  distilled  from  the  fermented  juice  of 
the  grape,  and  is  made  in  the  wine  countries. 

Geo.  Is  spirit  of  wine  different  from  spirituous  liquors  ? 

Tut.  It  is  the  strongest  part  of  them  got  by  distilling  over  again  ;  for  all 
these  still  contain  a  good  deal  of  water,  along  with  a  pure  spirit,  which 
may  be  separated  by  a  gentler  heat  than  was  used  at  first.  But  in  order 
to  procure  this  as  strong  and  pure  as  possible,  it  must  be  distilled  several 
times  over,  always  leaving  some  of  the  watery  part  behind.  When  per- 
fectly pure,  it  is  the  same,  whatever  spirituous  liquor  it  is  got  from. 

Har.  My  mamma  has  little  bottles  of  lavender  water.     What  is  that  ? 

Tut.  It  is  a  spirit  of  wine  flavoured  with  lavender  flowers  ;  and  it  may  in 
like  manner  be  flavoured  with  many  other  fragrant  things,  since  their 
odoriferous  part  is  volatile,  and  will  rise  in  vapour  along  with  the  spirit. 

Har.  Will  not  spirit  of  wine  burn  violently  ? 

Geo.  That  it  will,  I  can  tell  you  :  and  so  will  rum  and  brandy ;  for  you 
know  it  was  set  on  fire  when  we  made  snap-dragon. 

Tut.  All  spirituous  liquors  are  highly  inflammable,  and  the  more  so  the 
purer  they  are.  One  way  of  trying  the  purity  of  spirit  is  to  see  if  it  will 
burn  all  away  without  leaving  any  moisture  behind.  Then  it  is  much 
lighter  than  water,  and  that  affords  another  way  of  judging  of  its  strength. 
A  hollow  ivory  ball  is  set  to  swim  in  it ;  and  the  deeper  it  sinks  down, 
the  lighter,  and  therefore  the  more  spirituous,  is  the  liquor. 

Geo.  I  have  heard  much  of  the  mischief  done  by  spirituous  liquors — 
pray  what  good  do  they  do  ? 

Tut.  The  use  and  abuse  of  wine  and  spirits  is  a  very  copious  subject ; 
and  there  is  scarcely  any  gift  of  human  art,  the  general  effects  of  which 
are  more  dubious.  You  know  what  wine  is  said  to  be  given  for  in  the 
Bible  ? 

Geo.  To  make  glad  the  heart  of  man. 

Tut.  Right.    And  nothing  has  such  an  immediate  effect  in  inspiring 


164  THIRTEENTH    EVENING. 

vigour  of  body  and  mind  as  wine.  It  banishes  sorrow  and  care,  recruits 
from  fatigue,  enlivens  the  fancy,  inflames  the  courage,  and  performs  a 
hundred  fine  things,  of  which  I  could  bring  you  abundant  proof  from  the 
poets.  The  physicians,  too,  speak  almost  as  much  in  its  favour,  both  in 
diet  and  medicine.  But  its  really  good  effects  are  only  when  used  in 
moderation ;  and  it  unfortunately  is  one  of  those  things  which  man  can 
hardly  be  brought  to  use  moderately.  Excess  in  wine  brings  on  effects 
the  very  contrary  to  its  benefits.  It  stupifies  and  enfeebles  the  mind,  and 
fills  the  body  with  incurable  diseases.  And  this  it  does  even  when  used 
without  intoxication.  But  a  drunken  man  loses  for  the  time  every  dis- 
tinction of  a  reasonable  creature,  and  becomes  worse  than  a  brute  beast. 
On  this  account  Mahomet  entirely  forbade  its  use  to  his  followers,  and  to 
this  day  it  is  not  publicly  drunk  in  any  of  the  countries  that  receive  the 
Mohammedan  religion. 

Har.  Was  not  that  right? 

Tut.  I  think  not.  If  we  were  entirely  to  renounce  every  thing  that  may 
be  misused,  we  should  have  scarce  any  enjoyments  left;  and  it  is  a  proper 
exercise  of  our  strength  of  mind  to  use  good  things  with  moderation,  when 
we  have  it  in  our  power  to  do  otherwise. 

Geo.  But  spirituous  liquors  are  not  good  at  all,  are  they  ? 

Tut.  They  have  so  little  good  and  so  much  bad  in  them,  that  I  confess  I 
wish  their  common  use  could  be  abolished  altogether.  They  are  generally 
taken  by  the  lowest  class  of  people  for  the  express  purpose  of  intoxication ; 
and  they  are  much  sooner  prejudicial  to  the  health  than  wine,  and,  indeed, 
when  drunk  unmixed,  are  no  better  than  slow  poison. 

Geo.  Spirit  of  wine  is  useful,  though,  for  several  things — is  it  not  ? 

Tut.  Yes ;  and  I  would  have  all  spirits  kept  in  the  hands  of  chymists  and 
artists  who  know  how  to  employ  them  usefully.  Spirits  of  wine  will 
dissolve  many  things  that  water  will  not.  Apothecaries  use  them  in 
drawing  tinctures,  and  artists  in  preparing  colours  and  making  varnishes. 
They  are  likewise  very  powerful  preservatives  from  corruption.  You  may 
have  seen  serpents  and  insects  brought  from  abroad  in  vials  full  of  spirits. 

Geo.  I  have. 

Har.  And  I  know  of  another  use  of  spirits. 

Tut.  What  is  that? 

Har.  To  burn  in  lamps.  My  grandmamma  has  a  teakettle  with  a  lamp 
under  it  to  keep  the  water  hot,  and  she  burns  spirits  in  it. 

Tut.  So  she  does.     Well — so  much  for  the  use  of  these  liquors. 


K 


WINE    AND    SPIRITS.  165 

Geo.  But  you  have  said  nothing  about  ale  and  beer.  Are  they  whole- 
some? 

Tut.  Yes,  in  moderation.  But  they  are  sadly  abused  too,  and  rob  many 
men  of  their  health  as  well  as  their  money  and  senses. 

Geo.  Small  beer  does  no  harm,  however. 

Tut.  No — and  we  will  indulge  in  a  good  draught  of  it  when  we  get 
home. 

Har.  I  like  water  better. 

Tut.  Then  drink  it  by  all  means.  He  that  is  satisfied  with  water  has 
one  want  the  less,  and  may  defy  thirst,  in  this  country,  at  least. 


The  Trial,  p.  172. 

EVENING  XIV. 


THE  BOY  WITHOUT  A  GENIUS. 

Mr.  Wiseman,  the  schoolmaster,  at  the  end  of  the  summer-vacation, 
received  a  new  scholar  with  the  following  letter : — 

"  Sir: — This  will  he  delivered  to  you  by  my  son  Samuel,  whom  I  beg 
leave  to  commit  to  your  care,  hoping  that,  by  your  well-known  skill  and 
attention,  you  will  be  able  to  make  something  of  him,  which,  I  am  sorry 
to  say,  none  of  his  masters  have  hitherto  done.  He  is  now  eleven,  and 
yet  can  do  nothing  but  read  his  mother-tongue,  and  that  but  indifferently. 
We  sent  him,  at  seven,  to  a  grammar-school  in  our  neighbourhood ;  but  his 

166 


BOY    WITHOUT    A    GENIUS.  167 

master  soon  found  that  his  genius  was  not  turned  to  learning  languages. 
He  was  then  put  to  writing,  but  he  set  about  it  so  awkwardly  that  he 
made  nothing  of  it.  He  was  tried  at  accounts,  but  it  appeared  that  he 
had  no  genius  for  that  either.  He  could  do  nothing  in  geography  for 
want  of  memory.  In  short,  if  he  has  any  genius  at  all,  it  does  not  yet 
show  itself.  But  I  trust  to  your  experience  in  cases  of  this  nature,  to 
discover  what  he  is  fit  for,  and  to  instruct  him  accordingly.  I  beg  to  be 
favoured  shortly  with  your  opinion  about  him,  and  remain,  sir, 

"  Your  most  obedient  servant, 

"  Humphrey  Acres." 

When  Mr.  Wiseman  had  read  this  letter,  he  shook  his  head,  and  said 
to  his  assistant: — "A  pretty  subject  they  have  sent  us  here!  a  lad  that  has 
a  great  genius  for  nothing  at  all.  But  perhaps  my  friend  Mr.  Acres 
expects  that  a  boy  should  show  a  genius  for  a  thing  before  he  knows  any- 
thing about  it — no  uncommon  error!  Let  us  see,  however,  what  the 
youth  looks  like.    I  suppose  he  is  a  human  creature,  at  least." 

Master  Samuel  Acres  was  now  called  in.  He  came  hanging  down  his 
head,  and  looking  as  if  he  was  going  to  be  flogged. 

"  Come  hither,  my  dear !"  said  Mr.  Wiseman,  "stand  by  me,  and  do  not 
be  afraid.  Nobody  will  hurt  you.   How  old  are  you  ?" 

"  Eleven,  last  May,  sir." 

"  A  well-grown  boy  of  your  age,  indeed.    You  love  play,  I  dare  say  ?M 

"Yes,  sir." 

"What,  are  you  a  good  hand  at  marbles  ?" 

"  Pretty  good,  sir." 

"  And  can  spin  a  top,  and  drive  a  hoop,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Then  you  have  the  full  use  of  your  hands  and  fingers  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Can  you  write,  Samuel  ?" 

"  I  learned  a  little,  sir,  but  I  left  it  off  again." 

"And  why  so?" 

"  Because  I  could  not  make  the  letters." 

"No !  Why,  how  do  you  think  other  boys  do—have  they  more  fingers 
han  you?" 

"No,  sir." 

"  Are  you  not  able  to  hold  a  pen  as  well  as  a  marble?" 


1G5  FOURTEENTH    EVENING. 

"  Samuel  was  silent." 
"  Let  me  look  at  your  hand." 

Samuel  held  out  both  his  paws  like  a  dancing  bear. 
"I  see  nothing  to  hinder  you  from  writing  as  well  as  any  boy  in  the 
school.    You  can  read,  I  suppose?" 
"Yes,  sir." 

"  Tell  me,  then,  what  is  written  over  the  school-room  door." 
Samuel,  with  some  hesitation,  read : — 

"  WHATEVER  MAN  HAS  DONE,  MAN  MAY  DO." 

"  Pray,  how  did  you  learn  to  read  ? — Was  it  not  by  taking  pains  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Well — taking  more  pains  will  enable  you  to  read  better.  Do  you  know 
anything  of  the  Latin  grammar  ?" 

"No,  sir." 

"  Have  you  never  learned  it  ?" 

"  I  tried,  sir,  but  I  could  not  get  it  by  heart." 

"  Why,  you  can  say  some  things  by  heart.  I  dare  say  you  can  tell  me 
the  names  of  the  days  of  the  week,  in  their  order." 

"Yes,  sir,  I  know  them." 

"  And  the  months  in  the  year,  perhaps." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  And  you  could  probably  repeat  the  names  of  your  brothers  and  sisters, 
and  all  your  father's  servants,  and  half  the  people  in  the  village  besides." 

"  I  believe  I  could,  sir." 

"  Well — and  is  hie,  hcec,  hoc,  more  difficult  to  remember  than  these  ?" 

Samuel  was  silent. 

"Have  you  learned  anything  of  accounts  ?" 

"  I  went  into  addition,  sir,  but  I  did  not  go  on  with  it." 

"Why  so?" 

"  I  could  not  do  it,  sir." 

"How many  marbles  can  you  buy  for  a  penny?" 

"  Twelve  new  ones,  sir." 

"  And  how  many  for  two  pence  ?" 

"Twenty-four." 

"  And  how  many  for  a  half-penny  ?" 

"Six." 


BOY    WITHOUT    A    GENIUS.  169 

*  If  you  were  to  have  a  penny  a  day,  what  would  that  make  in  a  week?'- 

"  Seven  pence." 

"But  if  you  paid  two  pence  out  of  that,  what  would  you  have  left?" 

Samuel  studied  a  while,  and  then  said,  "  Five  pence." 

"  Right.  Why,  here  you  have  been  practising  the  four  great  rules  of 
arithmetic — addition,  subtraction,  multiplication,  and  division  !  Learning 
accounts  is  no  more  than  this.  Well,  Samuel,  I  shall  see  what  you  are 
fit  for.  I  shall  set  you  about  nothing  but  what  you  are  able  to  do;  but, 
observe,  you  must  do  it.  We  have  no  /  can  H  here.  Now  go  among 
your  schoolfellows." 

Samuel  went  away,  glad  that  his  examination  was  over,  and  with  more 
confidence  in  his  powers  than  he  had  felt  before. 

The  next  day  he  began  business.  A  boy  less  than  himself  was  called 
out  to  set  him  a  copy  of  letters,  and  another  was  appointed  to  hear  him  in 
grammar.  He  read  a  few  sentences  in  English  that  he  could  perfectly 
understand  to  the  master  himself.  Thus,  by  going  on  steadily  and  slowly, 
he  made  a  sensible  progress.  He  had  already  joined  his  letters,  got  all 
the  declensions  perfectly,  and  half  the  multiplication  table,  when  Mr. 
Wiseman  thought  it  time  to  answer  his  father's  letter ;  which  he  did  as 
follows : — 

"Sir,  I  now  think  it  right  to  give  you  some  information  concerning  your 
son.  You  perhaps  expected  it  sooner,  but  I  always  wish  to  avoid  hasty 
judgments.  You  mentioned  in  your  letter  that  it  had  not  yet  been 
discovered  which  way  his  genius  pointed.  If  by  genius  you  meant  such 
a  decided  bent  of  mind  to  any  one  pursuit  as  will  lead  to  excel  with  little 
or  no  labour  or  instruction,  I  must  say  that  I  have  not  met  with  such  a 
quality  in  more  than  three  or  four  boys  in  my  life,  and  your  son  is  certainly 
not  among  the  number.  But  if  you  mean  only  the  ability  to  do  some  of 
those  things  which  the  greater  part  of  mankind  can  do  when  properly 
taught,  I  can  affirm  that  I  find  in  him  no  peculiar  deficiency.  And  whether 
you  choose  to  bring  him  up  to  trade,  or  to  some  practical  profession,  I  see 
no  reason  to  doubt  that  he  may  in  time  become  sufficiently  qualified  for 
it.  It  is  my  favourite  maxim,  sir,  that  everything  most  valuable  in  this 
life  may  generally  be  acquired  by  taking  pains  for  it.  Your  son  has 
already  lost  much  time  in  the  fruitless  expectation  of  finding  out  what  he 
would  take  up  of  his  own  accord.  Believe  me,  sir,  few  boys  will  take  up 
anything  of  their  own  accord  but  a  top  or  a  marble.    I  will  take  care, 

8 


170  FOURTEENTH    EVENING. 

while  he  is  with  me,  that  he  loses  no  more  time  this  way,  but  is  employed 
about  things  that  are  fit  for  him,  not  doubting  that  we  shall  find  him  fit 
for  them.  "  I  am,  sir,  yours,  &c. 

"  Solon  Wiseman." 

Though  the  doctrine  of  this  letter  did  not  perfectly  agree  with  Mr. 
Acres's  notions,  yet  being  convinced  that  Mr.  Wiseman  was  more  likely 
to  make  something  of  his  son  than  any  of  his  former  preceptors,  he  con- 
tinued him  at  his  school  for  some  years,  and  had  the  satisfaction  to  find 
him  going  on  in  a  steady  course  of  gradual  improvement.  In  due  time  a 
profession  was  chosen  for  him,  which  seemed  to  suit  his  temper  and 
talents,  but  for  which  he  had  no  particular  turn^  having  never  thought  at 
all  about  it.  He  made  a  respectable  figure  in  it,  and  went  through  the 
world  with  credit  and  usefulness,  though  without  a  genius. 

HALF  A  CROWN'S  WORTH. 

Valentine  was  in  his  thirteenth  year,  and  a  scholar  in  one  of  our  great 
schools.  He  was  a  well-disposed  boy,  but  could  not  help  envying  a  little, 
some  of  his  companions,  who  had  a  larger  allowance  of  money  than 
himself.  He  ventured  in  a  letter  to  sound  his  father  on  the  subject,  not 
directly  asking  for  a  particular  sum,  but  mentioning  that  many  of  the 
boys  in  his  class  had  half  a  crown  a  week  for  pocket-money. 

His  father,  who  did  not  choose  to  comply  with  his  wishes  for  various 
reasons,  nor  yet  to  refuse  him  in  a  mortifying  manner,  wrote  an  answer, 
the  chief  purpose  of  which  was  to  make  him  sensible  what  sort  of  a  sum 
half  a  crown  a  week  was,  and  to  how  many  more  important  uses  it  might 
be  put,  than  to  provide  a  school-boy  with  things  absolutely  superfluous  to 
him. 

"It  is  calculated,"  said  he,  "that  a  grown  man  may  be  kept  in  health 
and  fit  for  labour  upon  a  pound  and  a  half  of  good  bread  a  day.  Suppose 
the  value  of  this  to  be  two  pence  half-penny,  and  add  a  penny  for  a  quart 
of  milk,  which  will  greatly  improve  his  diet,  half  a  crown  will  keep  him 
eight  or  nine  days  in  this  manner. 

"  A  common  labourer's  wages  in  our  country  are  seven  shillings  per 
week,  and  if  you  add  somewhat  extraordinary  for  harvest  work,  this  will 
not  make  it  amount  to  three  half-crowns  on  an  average  the  year  round. 
Suppose  his  wife  and  children  to  earn  another  half-crown.     For  this  ten 


HALF   A   CROWN'S   WORTH.  171 

shillings  per  week  he  will  maintain  himself,  his  wife,  and  half  a  dozen 
children,  in  food,  lodging,  clothes,  and  fuel.  A  half-crown  then  may  be 
reckoned  the  full  weekly  maintenance  of  two  human  creatures  in  every 
thing  necessary. 

"  Where  potatoes  are  much  cultivated,  two  bushels,  weighing  eighty 
pounds  a  piece,  may  be  purchased  for  half  a  crown.  Here  are  one  hun- 
dred and  sixty  pounds  of  solid  food,  of  which  allowing  for  the  waste  in 
dressing,  you  may  reckon  two  pounds  and  a  half  sufficient  for  the  sole 
daily  nourishment  of  one  person.  At  this  rate,  nine  people  might  be  fed 
a  week  for  half  a  crown ;  poorly,  indeed,  but  so  as  many  thousands  are 
fed,  with  the  addition  of  a  little  salt  or  buttermilk. 

"  If  the  father  of  a  numerous  family  were  out  of  work,  or  the  mother 
lying-in,  a  parish  would  think  half  a  crown  a  week  a  very  ample  assist- 
ance to  them. 

"  Many  of  the  cottagers  round  us  would  receive  with  great  thankfulness 
a  sixpenny  loaf  per  week,  and  reckon  it  a  very  material  addition  to  their 
children's  bread.  For  half  a  crown,  therefore,  you  might  purchase — the 
weekly  blessings  of  five  poor  families. 

"  Porter  is  a  sort  of  luxury  to  a  poor  man,  but  not  a  useless  one,  since 
it  will  stand  in  the  place  of  some  solid  food,  and  enable  him  to  work  with 
better  heart.  You  could  treat  a  hard-working  man  with  a  pint  a  day  of 
this  liquor  for  twelve  days,  with  half  a  crown. 

"Many  a  cottage  in  the  country  inhabited  by  a  large  family  is  let  for 
forty  shillings  a  year.  Half  a  crown  a  week  would  pay  the  full  rent  of 
three  such  cottages,  and  allow  somewhat  over  for  repairs. 

"  The  usual  price  for  schooling  at  a  dame-school  in  a  village  is  two 
pence  a  week.  You  might,  therefore,  get  fifteen  children  instructed  in 
reading,  and  the  girls  in  sewing,  for  half  a  crown  weekly.  But  even  in 
a  town  you  might  get  them  taught  reading,  writing,  and  accounts,  and  so 
fitted  for  any  common  trade,  for  five  shillings  a  quarter ;  and  therefore 
half  a  crown  a  week  would  keep  six  children  at  such  a  school,  and  pro- 
vide them  with  books  besides. 

"  All  these  are  ways  in  which  half  a  crown  a  week  might  be  made  to 
lo  a  great  deal  of  good  to  others.  I  shall  now  just  mention  one  or  two 
ivays  of  laying  it  out  with  advantage  to  yourself. 

"  I  know  you  are  very  fond  of  coloured  plates  of  plants,  and  other  ob 
jects  of  natural  history.  There  are  now  several  works  of  this  sort  pub 
lishing  in  monthly  numbers,  as  the  Botanical  Magazine,  the  English 


172  FOURTEENTH    EVENING. 

Botany,  the  Flora  Rustica,  and  the  Naturalist's  Magazine.  Now  half  a 
crown  a  week  would  reach  the  purchase  of  the  best  of  these. 

"  The  same  sum  laid  out  in  the  old  book-shops  in  London  would  buy 
you  more  classics,  and  pretty  editions  too,  in  one  year,  than  you  could 
read  in  five. 

"  Now  I  do  not  grudge  laying  out  half  a  crown  a  week  upon  you ;  but 
when  so  many  good  things  for  yourself  and  others  may  be  done  with  it, 
I  am  unwilling  you  should  squander  it  away  like  your  schoolfellows,  in 
tarts  and  trinkets." 

TRIAL* 

Of  a  Complaint  made  against   Sundry  Persons  for  breaking  the    Windows  of 
Dorothy  Careful,  Widow  and  Dealer  in  Gingerbread. 

The  court  being  seated,  there  appeared  in  person  the  widow  Dorothy 
Careful,  to  make  a  complaint  against  Henry  Luckless,  and  other  person 
or  persons  unknown,  for  breaking  three  panes  of  glass,  value  ninepence, 
in  the  house  of  the  said  widow.  Being  directed  to  tell  her  case  to  the 
court,  she  made  a  courtesy,  and  began  as  follows : — 

"Please  your  lordship,  I  was  sitting  at  work  by  my  fireside,  between 
the  hours  of  six  and  seven  in  the  evening,  just  as  it  was  growing  dusk, 
and  little  Jack  was  spinning  beside  me,  when  all  at  once  crack  went  the 
window,  and  down  fell  a  little  basket  of  cakes  that  was  set  up  against  it. 
I  started  up,  and  cried  to  Jack,  '  Bless  me,  what's  the  matter?'  So,  says 
Jack,  '  Somebody  has  thrown  a  stone  and  broke  the  window,  and  I  dare 
say  it  is  some  of  the  schoolboys.'  With  that  I  ran  out  of  the  house,  and 
saw  some  boys  making  off  as  fast  as  they  could  go.  So  I  ran  after  them 
as  quick  as  my  old  legs  would  carry  me;  but  I  should  never  have  come 
near  them,  if  one  had  not  happened  to  fall  down.  Him  I  caught  and 
brought  back  to  my  house,  when  Jack  knew  him  at  once  to  be  Master 
Harry  Luckless.  So  I  told  him  I  would  complain  of  him  the  next  day  ; 
and  I  hope  your  worship  will  make  him  pay  the  damage,  and  I  think  he 
deserves  a  good  whipping  into  the  bargain,  for  injuring  a  poor  widow 


*  This  was  meant  as  a  sequel  of  that  very  pleasing  and  ingenious  little  work, 
entitled  Juvenile  THals,  in  which  a  Court  of  Justice  is  supposed  to  be  instituted  in  a 
boarding-school,  composed  of  the  scholars  themselves,  for  the  purpose  of  trying 
offences  committed  at  school. 


TRIAL.  173 

The  judge  having  heard  Mrs.  Careful's  story,  desired  her  to  sit  down ; 
and  then  calling  up  Master  Luckless,  asked  him  what  he  had  to  say  for 
himself.  Luckless  appeared  with  his  face  a  good  deal  scratched,  and 
looking  very  ruefully.  After  making  his  how,  and  sobbing  two  or  three 
times,  he  said  : — 

"My  lord,  I  am  as  innocent  of  this  matter  as  any  boy  in  the  school, 
and  I  am  sure  I  have  suffered  enough  about  it  already.  My  lord,  Billy 
Thompson  and  I  were  playing  in  the  lane  near  Mrs.  Careful's  house, 
when  we  heard  the  window  crash ;  and  directly  after  she  came  running 
out  toward  us.  Upon  this,  Billy  ran  away,  and  I  ran  too,  thinking  I 
might  bear  the  blame.  But  after  running  a  little  way,  I  stumbled  over 
something  that  lay  in  the  road,  and  before  I  could  get  up  again  she  over- 
took me,  and  caught  me  by  the  hair,  and  began  lugging  and  cuffing  me. 
I  told  her  it  was  not  I  that  broke  her  window,  but  it  did  not  signify  ;  so  she 
dragged  me  to  the  light,  lugging  and  scratching  me  all  the  while,  and  then 
said  she  would  inform  against  me ;  and  that  is  all  I  know  of  the  matter." 

Judge.  I  find,  good  woman,  you  were  willing  to  revenge  yourself, 
without  waiting  for  the  justice  of  this  court. 

Widow  Careful.  My  lord,  I  confess  I  was  put  into  a  passion,  and  did 
not  properly  consider  what  I  was  doing. 

Jud.  Well,  where  is  Billy  Thompson  ? 

Billy.  Here,  my  lord. 

Jud.  You  have  heard  what  Harry  Luckless  says.  Declare  upon  your 
honour  whether  he  has  spoken  the  truth. 

Bil.  My  lord,  I  am  sure  neither  he  nor  I  had  any  concern  in  breaking 
the  window.  We  were  standing  together  at  the  time,  and  I  ran  on  hear- 
ing the  door  open,  for  fear  of  being  charged  with  it,  and  he  followed.  But 
what  became  of  him  I  did  not  stay  to  see. 

Jud.  So  you  let  your  friend  shift  for  himself,  and  only  thought  of 
saving  yourself.  But  did  you  see  any  other  person  about  the  house  or  in 
the  lane  ? 

Bil.  My  lord,  I  thought  I  heard  somebody  on  the  other  side  of  the 
hedge,  creeping  along,  a  little  before  the  window  was  broken,  but  I  saw 
nobody. 

Jud.  You  hear,  good  woman,  what  is  alleged  in  behalf  of  the  person 
you  have  accused.     Have  you  any  other  evidence  against  him  ? 

Wid.  One  might  be  sure  that  they  would  deny  it,  and  tell  lies  for  one 
another;  but  I  hope  I  am  not  to  be  put  off  in  that  manner. 


174  FOURTEENTH    EVENING. 

Jud.  I  must  tell  you,  mistress,  that  you  give  too  much  liberty  to  your 
tongue,  and  are  guilty  of  as  much  injustice  as  that  of  which  you  complain, 
I  should  be  sorry,  indeed,  if  the  young  gentlemen  of  this  school  deserved 
the  general  character  of  liars.  You  will  find  among  us,  I  hope,  as  just  a 
sense  of  what  is  right  and  honourable,  as  among  those  who  are  older  J 
and  our  worthy  master  certainly  would  not  permit  us  to  try  offences  in 
this  manner,  if  he  thought  us  capable  of  bearing  false  witness  in  each 
other's  favour. 

Wid.  I  ask  your  lordship's  pardon,  I  did  not  mean  to  offend  :  but  it  is 
a  heavy  loss  for  a  poor  woman,  and  though  I  did  not  catch  the  boy  in  the 
fact,  he  was  the  nearest  when  it  was  done. 

Jud.  As  this  is  no  more  than  a  suspicion,  and  he  has  the  positive  evi- 
dence of  his  schoolfellow  in  his  favour,  it  will  be  impossible  to  convict 
him,  consistently  with  the  rules  of  justice.  Have  you  discovered  any 
other  circumstance  that  may  point  out  the  offender  ? 

Wid.  My  lord,  next  morning  Jack  found  on  the  floor  this  top,  which  I 
suppose  the  window  was  broken  with. 

Jud.  Hand  it  up — here,  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  please  to  examine  it,  and 
see  if  you  can  discover  anything  of  its  owner. 

Juryman.  Here  is  P.  R.  cut  upon  it. 

Another.  Yes,  and  I  am  sure  I  remember  Peter  Riot's  having  just  such 
a  one. 

Another.  So  do  I. 

Jud.  Master  Riot,  is  this  your  top  ? 

Riot.  I  don't  know,  my  lord,  perhaps  it  may  be  mine;  I  have  had  a 
great  many  tops,  and  when  I  have  done  with  them,  I  throw  them  away, 
and  anybody  may  pick  them  up  that  pleases.    You  see  it  has  lost  its  peg. 

Jud.  Very  well,  sir.     Mrs.  Careful,  you  may  retire. 

Wid.  And  must  I  have  no  amends,  my  lord  ? 

Jud.  Have  patience.  Leave  everything  to  the  court.  We  shall  do 
you  all  the  justice  in  our  power. 

As  soon  as  the  widow  was  gone,  the  judge  rose  from  his  seat,  and  with 
much  solemnity  thus  addressed  the  assembly  : — 

"  Gentlemen,— this  business,  I  confess,  gives  me  much  dissatisfaction. 
A  poor  woman  has  been  insulted  and  injured  in  her  property,  apparently 
without  provocation ;  and  though  she  has  not  been  able  to  convict  the 
offender,  it  cannot  be  doubted  that  she,  as  well  as  the  world  in  general, 
will  impute  the  crime  to  some  of  our  society.     Though  I  am  in  my  own 


TRIAL.  175 

mind  convinced  that  in  her  passion  she  charged  an  innocent  person,  yet 
the  circumstance  of  the  top  is  a  strong  suspicion,  indeed  almost  a  proof, 
that  the  perpetrator  of  this  unmanly  mischief  was  one  of  our  body.  The 
owner  of  the  top  has  justly  observed,  that  its  having  been  his  property  is 
no  certain  proof  against  him.  Since,  therefore,  in  the  present  defect  of 
evidence,  the  whole  school  must  remain  burdened  with  the  discredit  of 
this  action,  and  share  in  the  guilt  of  it,  I  think  fit,  in  the  first  place,  to 
decree,  that  restitution  shall  be  made  to  the  sufferer  out  of  the  public 
chest ;  and  next  that  a  court  of  inquiry  be  instituted  for  the  express  pur- 
pose of  searching  thoroughly  into  this  affair,  with  power  to  examine  all 
persons  upon  honour  who  are  thought  likely  to  be  able  to  throw  light 
upon  it.  I  hope,  gentlemen,  these  measures  meet  with  your  concur- 
rence ?" 

The  whole  court  bowed  to  the  judge,  and  expressed  their  entire  satis- 
faction with  his  determination.      • 

It  was  then  ordered  that  the  public  treasurer  should  go  to  the  Widow 
CarefuPs  house,  any  pay  her  the  sum  of  one  shilling,  making  at  the  same 
time  a  handsome  apology  in  the  name  of  the  school.  And  six  persons 
were  taken  by  lot  out  of  the  jury  to  compose  the  court  of  inquiry,  which 
was  to  sit  in  the  evening. 

The  court  then  adjourned. 

On  the  meeting  of  the  court  of  inquiry,  the  first  thing  proposed  by  the 
president,  was,  that  the  persons  who  usually  played  with  Master  Riot 
should  be  sent  for.  Accordingly  Tom  Frisk  and  Bob  Loiter  were  sum- 
moned, when  the  president  asked  them  upon  their  honour  if  they  knew 
the  top  to  have  been  Riot's.  They  said  they  did.  They  were  then  asked 
whether  they  remembered  when  Riot  had  it  in  his  possession  1 

Frisk.  He  had  it  the  day  before  yesterday,  and  split  a  top  of  mine 
with  it. 

Loiter.  Yes,  and  then,  as  he  was  making  a  stroke  at  mine,  the  peg 
flew  out. 

President.  What  did  he  then  do  with  it  ? 

Fr.  He  put  it  into  his  pocket,  and  said,  as  it  was  a  strong  top,  he  would 
have  it  mended. 

Pres.  Then  he  did  not  throw  it  away,  or  give  it  to  any  body  1 

Loit.  No ;  he  pocketed  it  up,  and  we  saw  no  more  of  it. 

Pres.  Do  you  know  of  any  quarrel  he  had  with  Widow  Careful  1 

Fr.  Yes ;  a  day  or  two  before,  he  went  to  her  shop  for  some  ginger 


176  FOURTEENTH    EVENING. 

bread ;  but,  as  he  already  owed  her  sixpence,  she  would  not  let  him  have 
any  till  he  had  paid  his  debts. 

Pres.  How  did  he  take  the  disappointment  ? 

Fr.  He  said  he  would  be  revenged  on  her. 

Pres.  Are  you  sure  he  used  such  words  ? 

Fr.  Yes ;  Loiter  heard  him  as  well  as  myself. 

Ltoit.  I  did,  sir. 

Pres.  Do  either  of  you  know  any  more  of  this  affair  7 

Both.  No,  sir. 

Pres.  You  may  go. 

The  President  now  observed  that  these  witnesses  had  done  a  great  deal 
in  establishing  proofs  against  Riot ;  for  it  was  now  pretty  certain  that  no 
one  but  himself  could  have  been  in  possession  of  the  top  at  the  time  the 
crime  was  committed ;  and  also  it  appeared  that  he  had  declared  a  mali- 
cious intention  against  the  woman,  which  it  was  highly  probable  he  would 
put  into  execution. — As  the  court  were  debating  about  the  next  step  to  be 
taken,  they  were  acquainted  that  Jack,  the  widow's  son,  was  waiting  at 
the  school-door  for  admission ;  and  a  person  being  sent  out  for  him,  Riot 
was  found  threatening  the  boy,  and  bidding  him  go  home  about  his  busi- 
ness. The  boy,  however,  was  conveyed  safely  into  the  room,  when  he 
thus  addressed  himself  to  the  president : — 

Jack.  Sir,  and  please  your  worship,  as  I  was  looking  about  this 
morning  for  sticks  in  the  hedge  over  against  our  house,  I  found  this  buckle. 
So  I  thought  to  myself,  sure  this  must  belong  to  the  rascal  that  broke  our 
windows.  So  I  have  brought  it  to  see  if  anybody  in  the  school  would 
own  it. 

Pres.  On  which  side  of  the  hedge  did  you  find  it  ? 

Jack.  On  the  other  side  from  our  house,  in  the  close. 

Pres.  Let  us  see  it.  Gentlemen,  this  is  so  smart  a  buckle,  that  I  am 
sure  I  remember  it  at  once,  and  so  I  dare  say  you  all  do. 

All.  It  is  Riot's. 

Pres.  Has  anybody  observed  Riot's  shoes  to-day? 
One  Boy.  Yes,  he  has  got  them  tied  with  strings. 

Pres.  Very  well,  gentlemen ;  we  have  nothing  more  to  do  than  to  draw 
up  an  account  of  all  the  evidence  we  have  heard,  and  lay  it  before  his 
lordship.    Jack,  you  may  go  home. 

Jack.  Pray,  sir,  let  somebody  go  with  me,  for  I  am  afraid  of  Riot,  who 
has  just  been  threatening  me  at  the  door. 


TRIAL.  177 

Pres.  Master  Bold  will  please  to  go  along  with  the  boy. 

The  minutes  of  the  court  were  then  drawn  up,  and  the  President  took 
*hem  to  the  judge's  chamber.  After  the  judge  had  perused  them,  he 
ordered  an  endictment  to  be  drawn  up  against  Peter  Riot,  "  for  that  he 
meanly,  clandestinely,  and  with  malice  aforethought,  had  broken  three 
panes  in  the  window  of  Widow  Careful,  with  a  certain  instrument  called 
a  top,  whereby  he  had  committed  an  atrocious  injury  on  an  innocent 
person,  and  had  brought  a  disgrace  upon  the  society  to  which  he  belonged." 
At  the  same  time,  he  sent  an  officer  to  inform  Master  Riot  that  his  trial 
would  come  on  next  morning. 

Riot,  who  was  with  some  of  his  gay  companions,  affected  to  treat  the 
matter  with  great  indifference,  and  even  to  make  a  jest  of  it.  However, 
in  the  morning  he  thought  it  best  to  endeavour  to  make  it  up;  and 
accordingly,  when  the  court  was  assembled,  he  sent  one  of  his  friends 
with  a  shilling,  saying  that  he  would  not  trouble  them  with  any  further 
inquiries,  but  would  pay  the  sum  that  had  been  issued  out  of  the  public 
stock.  On  the  receipt  of  this  message  the  Judge  rose  with  much  severity 
in  his  countenance ;  and  observing,  that  by  such  a  contemptuous  behaviour 
towards  the  court  the  criminal  had  greatly  added  to  his  offence,  he  ordered 
two  officers  with  their  staves  immediately  to  go  and  bring  in  Riot,  and  to 
use  force  if  he  should  resist  them.  The  culprit,  thinking  it  best  to  submit, 
was  presently  led  in  between  the  two  officers  ;  when,  being  placed  at  the 
bar,  the  judge  thus  addressed  him : — 

"  I  am  sorry,  sir,  that  any  member  of  this  society  can  be  so  little  sensi- 
ble of  the  nature  of  a  crime,  and  so  little  acquainted  with  the  principles  of 
a  court  of  justice,  as  you  have  shown  yourself  to  be,  by  the  proposal  you 
took  the  improper  liberty  of  sending  to  us.  If  you  meant  it  as  a  confession 
of  your  guilt,  you  certainly  ought  to  have  waited  to  receive  from  us  the 
penalty  we  thought  proper  to  inflict,  and  not  to  have  imagined  that  an 
offer  of  the  mere  payment  of  damages  would  satisfy  the  claims  of  justice 
against  you.  If  you  had  only  broken  the  window  by  accident,  and  of 
your  own  accord  offered  restitution,  nothing  less  than  the  full  damages 
could  have  been  accepted.  But  you  now  stand  charged  with  having  done 
this  mischief,  meanly,  secretly,  and  maliciously,  and  thereby  have  added 
a  great  deal  of  criminal  intention  to  the  act.  Can  you  then  think  that  a 
court  like  this,  designed  to  watch  over  the  morals,  as  well  as  protect  the 
properties  of  our  community,  can  so  slightly  pass  over  such  aggravated 
offences  ?     You  can  claim  no  merit  from  confessing  the  crime,  now  that 

8* 


178  FOURTEENTH    EVENING. 

you  know  so  much  evidence  will  appear  against  you.  And  if  you  choose 
still  to  plead  not  guilty,  you  are  at  liberty  to  do  it,  and  we  will  proceed 
immediately  to  the  trial,  without  taking  any  advantage  of  the  confession 
implied  by  your  offer  of  payment." 

Riot  stood  silent  for  some  time,  and  then  begged  to  be  allowed  to  con- 
sult with  his  friends  what  was  best  for  him  to  do.  This  was  agreed  to, 
and  he  was  permitted  to  retire,  though  under  guard  of  an  officer.  After 
a  short  absence,  he  returned  with  more  humility  in  his  looks,  and  said 
that  he  pleaded  guilty,  and  threw  himself  on  the  mercy  of  the  court.  The 
j  udge  then  made  a  speech  of  some  length,  for  the  purpose  of  convincing 
the  prisoner  as  well  as  the  bystanders  of  the  enormity  of  the  crime.  He 
then  pronounced  the  following  sentence  : — 

{  You,  Peter  Riot,  are  hereby  sentenced  to  pay  the  sum  of  half  a  crown 
to  the  public  treasury,  as  a  satisfaction  for  the  mischief  you  have  done, 
and  your  attempt  to  conceal  it.  You  are  to  repair  to  the  house  of  Widow 
Careful,  accompanied  by  such  witnesses  as  we  shall  appoint,  and  there 
having  first  paid  her  the  sum  you  owe  her,  you  shall  ask  her  pardon  for 
the  insult  you  offered  her.  You  shall  likewise,  to-morrow,  after  school, 
stand  up  in  your  place,  and  before  all  the  scholars  ask  pardon  for  the 
disgrace  you  have  been  the  means  of  bringing  upon  the  society  ;  and  in 
particular  you  shall  apologise  to  Master  Luckless,  for  the  disagreeable 
circumstance  you  were  the  means  of  bringing  him  into.  Till  all  this  is 
complied  with,  you  shall  not  presume  to  come  into  the  play-ground,  or 
join  in  any  of  the  diversions  of  the  school ;  and  all  persons  are  hereby 
admonished  not  to  keep  your  company  till  this  is  done." 

Riot  was  then  dismissed  to  his  room ;  and  in  the  afternoon  he  was 
taken  to  the  widow's,  who  was  pleased  to  receive  his  submission 
graciously,  and  at  the  same  time  to  apologise  for  her  own  improper  treat- 
ment of  Master  Luckless,  to  whom  she  sent  a  present  of  a  nice  ball  by 
way  of  amends. 

Thus  ended  this  important  business. 


On  Man,  p.  164. 

EVENING  XV. 


THE  LEGUMINOUS  PLANTS. 
Tutor —  George — Harry  < 

George.  What  a  delightful  smell ! 

Harry.  Charming !    It  is  sweeter  than  Mr.  Essence's  shop. 

Tutor.  Do  you  know  whence  it  comes  ? 

Geo.  Oh — it  is  from  the  bean-field  on  the  other  side  of  the  hedge,  I 
suppose. 

Tut.  It  is.     This  is  the  month  in  which  beans  are  in  blossom..     See 
the  stalks  are  full  of  their  black  and  white  flowers. 

179 


180  FIFTEENTH    EVENING. 

Har.  I  see  peas  in  blossom,  too,  on  the  other  side  of  the  field. 

Geo.  You  told  us  some  time  ago  of  grass  and  corn  flowers,  but  they 
make  a  poor  figure  compared  to  these. 

Tut.  They  do.  The  glory  of  a  corn-field  is  when  it  is  ripe ;  but  peas 
and  beans  look  very  shabbily  at  that  time.  But  suppose  we  take  a  closer 
view  of  these  blossoms.  Go  you,  George,  and  bring  me  a  bean-plant  j 
and  you,  Harry,  a  pea. 

[They  go  and  bring  them. 

Tut.  Now  let  us  sit  down  and  compare  them.  Do  you  think  these 
flowers  much  alike  ? 

Har.  Oh  no — very  little. 

Geo.  Yes — a  good  deal ! 

Tut.  A  little  and  a  good  deal!  How  can  that  be  ?  Come  let  us  see.  In 
the  first  place,  they  do  not  much  resemble  each  other  in  size  or  colour. 

Geo.  No — but  I  think  they  do  in  shape. 

Tut.  True.  They  are  both  irregular  flowers,  and  have  the  same 
distribution  of  parts.  They  are  of  the  kind  called  papilionaceous,  from 
papilio,  the  Latin  word  for  a  butterfly,  which  insect  they  are  thought  to 
resemble. 

Geo.  The  pea  does  a  little,  but  not  much. 

Tut.  Some  do  much  more  than  these.  Well — you  see  first  a  broad 
leaf  standing  upright,  but  somewhat  bent  back ;  this  is  named  the 
standard.  On  each  side  are  two  narrower,  called  the  wings.  The  under 
side  of  the  flower  is  formed  of  a  hollow  part  resembling  a  boat :  this  is 
called  a  keel. 

Geo.  It  is  very  like  a  boat  indeed ! 

Tut.  In  some  kinds,  however,  it  is  divided  in  the  middle,  and  so  is  like 
a  boat  split  in  two.  All  these  parts  have  claws  which  unite  to  form  a 
tube,  set  in  a  calyx,  or  flower-cup.  This  tube,  you  observe,  is  longer  in 
the  bean  than  in  the  pea,  and  the  proportions  of  the  other  parts  are  some- 
what different ;  but  the  parts  themselves  are  found  in  both. 

Har.  So  they  are.    I  think  them  alike  now. 

Tut.  That  is  the  consequence  of  examining  closely.  Now  let  us  strip 
off  all  the  leaves  of  this  bean-flower  but  the  keel.  What  do  you  think  this 
boat  contains? 

Geo.  It  must  be  those  little  things  you  told  us  are  in  all  flowers. 

Har.  The  chives  and  pistil. 

Tut.  Right.  I  will  draw  down  the  keel  gently ,  and  you  shall  see  them. 


LEGUMINOUS    PLANTS  181 

Har.  How  curious ! 

Tut.  Here  are  a  number  of  chives  joining  in  their  bodies,  so  as  to  make 
a  round  tube,  or  cylinder,  through  which  comes  out  a  crooked  thread, 
which  is  the  pistil.  I  will  now  with  a  pin  slit  this  cylinder.  What  do 
you  see  within  it? 

Geo.  Somewhat  like  a  little  pod. 

Tut.  True — and  to  show  you  that  it  is  a  pod,  I  will  open  it,  and  you 
shall  see  the  seeds  within  it. 

Har.  What  tiny  things !  Is  this,  then,  what  makes  the  bean-pod 
afterward  7 

Tut.  It  is.  When  the  blossom  drops,  this  seed-vessel  grows  bigger  and 
bigger,  and  at  length  hardens  as  the  seeds  grow  ripe,  becomes  black  and 
shrivelled,  and  would  burst  and  shed  the  seeds,  if  they  were  not  gathered. 

Geo.  I  have  seen  several  burst  pods  of  our  sweet-peas  under  the  wall, 
with  nothing  left  in  them. 

Tut.  And  it  is  common  for  the  field  peas  and  beans  to  lose  a  great  part 
of  the  seeds  while  they  are  getting  in. 

Har.  At  the  bottom  of  this  pea-stalk  there  are  some  pods  set  already. 

Tut.  Open  one.  You  see  that  the  pod  is  composed  of  two  shells,  and 
that  all  the  seeds  are  fastened  to  one  side  of  the  pod,  but  alternately  to 
each  shell. 

Geo.  Is  it  the  same  in  beans  ? 

Tut.  Yes,  and  in  all  other  pods  of  the  papilionaceous  flowers.  Well — 
this  is  the  general  structure  of  a  very  numerous  and  useful  class  of  plants, 
called  the  leguminous  or  podded.  Of  these,  in  this  country,  the  greater 
part  are  herbaceous,  with  some  shrubs.  In  the  warm  climates  there  are 
also  tall  trees.  Many  of  the  leguminous  plants  afford  excellent  nourish- 
ment for  man  and  beast ;  and  their  pods  have  the  name  of  pulse. 

Geo.  I  have  read  of  persons  living  on  pulse,  but  I  did  not  know  what  it 
meant  before. 

Tut.  It  is  frequently  mentioned  as  part  of  the  diet  of  abstemious  persons. 
Of  this  kind,  we  eat  peas,  beans,  and  kidney  or  French  beans,  of  all  which 
there  are  a  variety  of  sorts  cultivated.  Other  nations  eat  lentils  and 
lupines,  which  are  of  this  class;  with  several  others. 

Har.  I  remember  our  lupines  in  the  garden  have  flowers  of  this  kind, 
with  pods  growing  in  clusters.  We  only  cultivate  them  for  the  colour 
and  smell. 

Tut.  But  other  nations  eat  them.     Then,  all  the  kinds  of  clover,  or 


182  FIFTEENTH    EVENING. 

trefoil,  which  are  so  useful  in  feeding  cattle,  belong  to  this  tribe  ;  as  do 
likewise  vetches,  sanfoin,  and  lucerne,  which  are  used  for  the  same 
purpose.  These  principally  compose  what  are  usually,  though  improperly, 
called,  in  agriculture,  artificial  grasses. 

Geo.  Clover  flowers  are  as  sweet  as  beans  ;  but  do  they  bear  pods  ? 

Tut.  Yes  ;  very  short  ones,  with  one  or  two  seeds  in  each.  But  there 
is  a  kind  called  nonsuch,  with  a  very  small  yellow  flower,  that  has  a 
curious  twisted  pod  like  a  snail-shell.  Many  of  the  leguminous  plants 
are  weak,  and  cannot  support  themselves ;  hence  they  are  furnished  with 
tendrils,  by  means  of  which  they  clasp  neighbouring  plants,  and  run  up 
them.  You  know  the  garden-peas  do  so  on  the  sticks  which  are  set  in 
the  rows  with  them.  Some  kind  of  vetches  run  in  this  manner  up  the 
hedges,  which  they  decorate  with  their  long  bunches  of  blue  or  purple 
flowers.  Tares,  which  are  some  of  the  slenderest  of  the  family,  do  much 
mischief  among  corn  by  twining  round  it  and  choking  it. 

Har.  What  are  they  good  for,  then  7 

Tut.  They  are  weeds  or  noxious  plants  with  respect  to  us  ;  but  doubt- 
less they  have  their  uses  in  the  creation.  Some  of  our  papilionaceous 
plants,  however,  are  able  enough  to  shift  for  themselves ;  for  gorse  or  furze 
is  of  the  number. 

Geo.  What,  that  prickly  bush  all  covered  over  with  yellow  flowers,  that 
overruns  our  common? 

Tut.  Then  there  is  broom,  a  plant  as  big,  but  without  thorns,  and  with 
larger  flowers.     This  is  as  frequent  as  furze  in  some  places. 

Har.  I  know  it  grows  in  abundance  in  the  broom-field. 

Tut.  It  does;  but  the  naming  of  fields  and  places  from  it  is  a  proof 
that  it  is  not  so  common  as  the  other. 

Geo.  We  have  some  bushes  of  white  broom  in  the  shrubbery,  and 
some  trees  of  Spanish  broom. 

Tut.  True.  You  have  also  a  small  tree  which  flowers  early,  and  bears 
a  great  many  pendent  branches  of  yellow  blossoms,  that  look  peculiarly 
beautiful  when  intermixed  with  the  purple  lilacs. 

Har.  I  know  it — laburnum. 

Tut.  Right.  This  is  one  of  our  class  of  plants  too.  Then  there  is  a 
large  tree,  with  delicate  little  leaves,  protected  by  long  thorns,  and  bearing 
bunches  of  white  papilionaceous  flowers. 

Geo.  I  know  which  you  mean,  but  I  cannot  tell  the  name. 

Tut .  It  is  the  bastard-acacia,  or  locust-tree,  a  native  of  America.    Thus, 


s< 

ON    MAN.  183 

you  see,  we  have  traced  this  class  of  plants  through  all  sizes,  from  the 
trefoil  that  covers  the  turf,  to  a  large  tree.  I  should  not,  however,  forget 
two  others,  the  licorice,  and  the  tamarind.  The  licorice,  with  the  sweet 
root  of  which  you  are  well  acquainted,  grows  in  the  warmer  countries, 
especially  Spain,  but  is  cultivated  in  some  parts  of  England,  especially 
at  Pomfret,  in  Yorkshire.  The  tamarind  is  a  large  spreading  tree  growing 
in  the  West  Indies,  and  valued  for  its  shade,  as  well  as  for  the  cooling 
acid  pulp  of  its  pods,  which  are  preserved  with  sugar  and  sent  over  to  us. 

Har.  I  know  them  very  well. 

Tut.  Well — do  you  think  now  you  shall  both  be  able  to  discover  a 
papilionaceous  flower  when  you  meet  with  it  again  ? 

Geo.  I  believe  I  shall,  if  they  are  all  like  these  we  have  been  examining. 

Tut.  They  have  all  the  same  parts,  though  variously  proportioned. 
What  are  these  ? 

Geo.  There  is  the  standard  and  two  wings. 

Har.  And  the  keel. 

Tut.  Right — the  keel  sometimes  cleft  into  two,  and  then  it  is  an  irreg- 
ular five-leaved  flower.  The  chives  are  generally  ten,  of  which  one 
stands  apart  from  the  rest.  The  pistil  single,  and  ending  in  a  pod. 
Another  circumstance  common  to  most  of  this  tribe,  is,  that  their  leaves 
are  winged,  or  pinnated,  that  is,  having  leaflets  set  o  pposite  each  other, 
upon  a  middle  rib.  You  see  this  structure  in  these  bean-leaves.  But  in 
the  clovers  there  are  only  two  opposite  leaflets,  and  one  terminating ; 
whence  their  name  of  trefoil,  or  three-leaf.  What  we  call  a  club  on  cards 
is  properly  a  clover-leaf,  and  the  French  call  it  trefle,  which  means  the 
same. 

Geo.  I  think  this  tribe  of  plants  almost  as  useful  as  the  grasses. 

Tut.  They  perhaps  come  the  next  in  utility :  but  their  seeds,  such  as 
beans  and  peas,  are  not  quite  such  good  nourishment  as  corn,  and  bread 
cannot  be  made  of  them. 

Geo.  But  clover  is  better  than  grass  for  cattle. 

Tut.  It  is  more  fattening,  and  makes  cows  yield  plenty  of  fine  milk. 
Well — let  us  march. 


ON  MAN. 

Charles.  You  gave  me  the  definition  of  a  horse  some  time  ago — Pray, 
sir,  how  is  a  man  defined  ? 


184  FIFTEENTH    EVENING. 

Father.  That  is  worth  inquiring.  Let  us  consider  then.  He  must 
either  stand  by  himself,  or  be  ranked  among  the  quadrupeds ;  for  there 
are  no  other  two-legged  animals  but  birds,  which  he  certainly  does  not 
resemble. 

Ch.  But  how  can  he  be  made  a  quadruped  ? 

Fa.  By  setting  him  to  crawl  on  the  ground,  in  which  case  he  will  as 
mucn  resemble  a  baboon  as  a  baboon  set  on  his  hind-legs  does  a  man.  In 
reality,  there  is  little  difference  between  the  arms  of  a  man  and  the  fore- 
legs of  a  quadruped ;  and  in  all  other  circumstances  of  internal  and 
external  structure,  they  are  evidently  formed  upon  the  same  model. 

Ch.  I  suppose  then  we  must  call  him  a  digitated  quadruped,  that 
generally  goes  upon  its  hind  legs. 

Fa.  A  naturalist  could  not  reckon  him  otherwise ;  and,  accordingly, 
Linnaeus  has  placed  him  in  the  same  division  with  apes,  macocos,  and  bats. 

Ch.  Apes,  macocos,  and  bats  ! 

Fa.  Yes — they  have  all  four  cutting  teeth  in  the  upper  jaw,  and  teats 
on  the  breast.     How  do  your  like  your  relations  ? 

Ch.  Not  at  all ! 

Fa.  Then  we  will  get  rid  of  them  by  applying  to  the  other  part  of 
human  nature — the  mind.  Man  is  an  animal  possessed  of  reason,  and 
the  only  one.     This,  therefore,  is  enough  to  define  him. 

Ch.  I  have  often  heard  that  man  is  a  rational  creature,  and  I  have  a 
notion  what  that  means ;  but  I  should  like  to  have  an  exact  definition  of 
reason. 

Fa.  Reason  is  the  faculty  by  which  we  compare  ideas,  and  draw 
conclusions.  A  man  walking  in  the  woods  of  an  unknown  country  finds 
a  bow.  He  compares  it  in  his  mind  with  other  bows,  and  forms  the 
conclusion  that  it  must  have  been  made  by  man,  and  that  therefore  the 
country  is  probably  inhabited.  He  discovers  a  hut ;  sees  in  it  half-burnt 
wood,  and  finds  that  the  ashes  are  not  quite  cold.  He  concludes,  therefore, 
with  certainty,  not  only  that  there  are  inhabitants,  but  that  they  cannot  be 
far  distant.     No  other  animal  could  do  this. 

Ch.  But  would  not  a  dog  who  had  been  used  to  live  with  men  run  into 
such  a  hut  and  expect  to  find  people  in  it  ? 

Fa.  He  probably  would — and  this,  I  acknowledge,  is  very  like  reason; 
for  he  may  be  supposed  to  compare  in  his  mind  the  hut  he  has  lived  in 
with  that  he  sees,  and  to  conclude  that  as  there  were  men  in  the  first  there 
are  in  the  last.    But  how  little  a  way  does  this  carry  him  ?    He  finds  no 


ON    MAN.  185 

men  there,  and  he  is  unable  by  any  marks  to  form  any  judgment  how  long 
they  have  been  absent,  or  what  sort  of  people  they  were  ;  still  less  does 
he  form  any  plan  of  conduct  in  consequence  of  his  discovery. 

Ch.  Then  is  not  the  difference  only  that  man  has  much  reason,  and 
brutes  little  1 

Fa.  If  we  adhere  to  the  mere  words  of  the  definition  of  reason,  I  believe 
this  must  be  admitted ;  but  in  the  exercise  of  it,  the  superiority  of  the 
human  faculties  is  so  great,  that  man  is  in  many  points  absolutely 
distinguished  from  brutes.  In  the  first  place  he  has  the  use  of  speech, 
which  no  other  animal  has  attained. 

Ch.  Cannot  many  animals  make  themselves  understood  by  one  another 
by  their  cries  ? 

Fa.  They  can  make  known  a  few  of  their  common  wants  and  desires, 
but  they  cannot  discourse,  or  communicate  ideas  stored  up  in  the  memory. 
It  is  this  faculty  which  makes  man  an  improvable  being,  the  wisdom 
and  experience  acquired  by  one  individual  being  thus  transmitted  to  others, 
and  so  on  in  an  endless  series  of  progression. 

There  is  no  reason  to  suppose  that  the  dogs  of  the  present  day  are  more 
knowing  than  those  which  lived  a  thousand  years  ago ;  but  the  men  of  this 
age  are  much  better  acquainted  with  numberless  arts  and  sciences  than 
their  remote  ancestors  ;  since,  by  the  use  of  speech  and  of  writing  (which 
is  speech  addressed  to  the  eye,)  every  age  adds  its  own  discoveries  to  all 
former  ones.  This  knowledge  of  the  past  likewise  gives  man  a  great 
insight  into  the  future.  Shakspeare  excellently  defines  man  by  saying  that 
he  is  a  creature  "  made  with  large  discourse,  looking  before  and  after." 

Ch.  Animals  must  surely  know  something  of  the  future,  when  they  lay 
up  a  store  of  provisions  for  the  winter. 

Fa.  No — it  is  pretty  certain  that  this  is  not  the  case,  for  they  will  do  it 
as  much  the  first  year  of  their  lives  as  any  other.  Young  bees  turned  out 
of  their  hive,  as  soon  as  they  have  swarmed  and  got  a  habitation,  begin 
laying  up  honey,  though  they  cannot  possibly  foresee  the  use  they  shall 
have  for  it.  There  are  a  vast  number  of  actions  of  this  kind  in  animals 
which  are  directed  to  a  useful  end,  but  an  end  which  the  animal  knows 
nothing  of.  And  this  is  what  we  call  instinct,  and  properly  distinguish 
from  reason.  Man  has  less  of  it  than  almost  any  other  animal,  because 
he  wants  it  less.  Another  point  of  essential  difference  is,  that  man  is  the 
only  animal  that  makes  use  of  instruments  in  any  of  his  actions.  He  is  a 
tool-making  and  machine-making  animal.     By  means  of  this  faculty 


Y- 


186  FIFTEENTH    EVENING. 

alone  he  is  every  where  lord  of  the  creation,  and  has  equally  triumphed 
over  the  subtlety  of  the  cunning,  the  swiftness  of  the  fleet,  and  the  force 
of  the  strong.  He  is  the  only  animal  that  has  found  out  the  use  ofjire,  a 
most  important  acquisition ! 

Ch.  I  have  read  of  some  large  apes  that  will  come  and  sit  round  a  fire 
in  the  woods  when  men  have  left  it,  but  have  not  the  sense  to  keep  it  in, 
by  throwing  on  sticks. 

Fa.  Still  less  then  could  they  light  a  fire.  In  consequence  of  this 
discovery  man  cooks  his  food,  which  no  other  animal  does.  He  alone 
fences  against  the  cold  by  clothing  as  well  as  by  fire.  He  alone  cultivates 
the  earth,  and  keeps  living  animals  for  future  uses. 

Ch.  But  have  not  there  been  wild  men  bred  in  the  woods  that  could  do 
none  of  these  things  ? 

Fa.  Some  instances  of  this  kind  are  recorded,  and  they  are  not  to  be 
wondered  at ;  for  man  was  meant  to  be  a  gregarious  animal,  or  one  living 
in  society,  in  which  alone  his  faculties  have  full  scope,  and  especially  his 
power  of  improving  by  the  use  of  speech.  These  poor  solitary  creatures, 
Drought  up  with  the  brutes,  were  in  a  state  entirely  unnatural  to  them.  A 
solitary  bee,  ant,  or  beaver,  would  have  none  of  the  skill  and  sagacity  of 
those  animals  in  their  proper  social  condition.  Society  sharpens  all  the 
faculties,  and  gives  ideas  and  views  which  never  could  have  been  enter- 
tained by  an  individual. 

Ch.  But  some  men  that  live  in  society  seem  to  be  little  above  the 
brutes,  at  least  when  compared  with  other  men.  What  is  a  Hottentot  in 
comparison  with  one  of  us  ? 

Fa.  The  difference,  indeed,  is  great ;  but  we  agree  in  the  most  essential 
characters  of  man,  and  perhaps  the  advantage  is  not  all  on  our  side.  The 
Hottentot  cultivates  the  earth  and  rears  cattle.  He  not  only  herds  with 
his  fellows,  but  he  has  instituted  some  sort  of  government  for  the  protec- 
tion of  the  weak  against  the  strong ;  he  has  a  notion  of  right  and  wrong, 
and  is  sensible  of  the  necessity  of  controlling  present  appetites  and  passions 
for  the  sake  of  a  future  good.  He  has  therefore  morals.  He  is  possessed 
of  weapons,  tools,  clothing,  and  furniture  of  his  own  making.  In  agility 
of  body,  and  the  knowledge  of  various  circumstances  relative  to  the  nature 
of  animals,  he  surpasses  us.  His  inferiority  lies  in  those  things  in  which 
many  of  the  lowest  class  among  us  are  equally  inferior  to  the  instructed. 

Cfi.  But  Hottentots  have  no  notion  of  a  God  or  a  future  state. 

Fa.  I  am  not  certain  how  far  that  is  fact :  but  alas  !  how  many  among 


WALKING    THE    STREETS.  187 

us  have  no  knowledge  at  all  on  these  subjects,  or  only  some  vague  notions 
full  of  absurdity  and  superstition  !  People  far  advanced  in  civilization  have 
held  the  grossest  errors  on  these  subjects,  which  are  only  to  be  corrected 
by  the  serious  application  of  reason,  or  by  a  direct  revelation  from  Heaven. 

Ch.  You  said  man  was  an  improveable  creature — but  have  not  many 
nations  been  a  long  time  in  a  savage  state  without  improvement  ? 

Fa.  Man  is  always  capable  of  improvement ;  but  he  may  exist  a  long 
time,  in  society,  without  actually  improving  beyond  a  certain  point. 
There  is  little  improvement  among  nations  who  have  not  the  art  of 
writing,  for  tradition  is  not  capable  of  preserving  very  accurate  or  extensive 
knowledge ;  and  many  arts  and  sciences,  after  flourishing  greatly,  have 
been  entirely  lost,  in  countries  which  have  been  overrun  by  barbarous 
and  illiterate  nations.  Then  there  is  a  principle  which  I  might  have 
mentioned  as  one  of  those  that  distinguish  man  from  brutes,  but  it  as 
much  distinguishes  some  men  from  others.  This  is  curiosity,  or  the  love 
of  knowledge  for  its  own  sake.  Most  savages  have  little  or  nothing  ol 
this;  but  without  it  we  should  want  one  of  the  chief  inducements  to  exert 
our  faculties.  It  is  curiosity  that  impels  us  to  search  into  the  properties 
of  every  part  of  nature,  to  try  all  sorts  of  experiments,  to  visit  distant 
regions,  and  even  to  examine  the  appearances  and  motions  of  the  heavenly 
bodies.  Every  fact  thus  discovered  leads  to  other  facts;  and  there  is  no 
limit  to  be  set  to  this  progress.  The  time  may  come,  when  what  we  now 
know  may  seem  as  much  ignorance  to  future  ages  as  the  knowledge  of 
early  times  does  to  us. 

Ch.  What  nations  know  the  most  at  present? 

Fa.  The  Europeans  have  long  been  distinguished  for  superior  ardour 
after  knowledge,  and  they  possess  beyond  comparison  the  greatest  share 
of  it,  whereby  they  have  been  enabled  to  command  the  rest  of  the  world. 
The  countries  in  which  the  arts  and  sciences  most  flourish  at  present  are 
the  northern  and  middle  parts  of  Europe,  and  also  North  America,  which, 
is  inhabited  by  descendants  of  Europeans.  In  these  countries  man  may  be 
said  to  be  most  man;  and  they  may  apply  to  themselves  the  poet's  boast : — 

"  Man  is  the  nobler  growth  these  realms  supply, 
And  souls  are  ripened  in  our  northern  sky." 

WALKING  THE  STREETS.— A  Parable. 

Have  you  ever  walked  through  the  crowded  streets  of  a  great  city? 
What  shoals  of  people  pouring  in  from  opposite  quarters,  like  torrents 


188  FIFTEENTH    EVENING. 

meeting  in  a  narrow  valley !  You  would  imagine  it  impossible  for  them 
to  get  through ;  yet  all  pass  on  their  way  without  stop  or  molestation. 

Were  each  man  to  proceed  exactly  in  the  line  in  which  he  set  out,  he 
could  not  move  many  paces  without  encountering  another  full  in  his  track. 
They  would  strike  against  each  other,  fall  back,  push  forward  again,  block 
up  the  way  for  themselves  and  those  after  them,  and  throw  the  whole 
street  into  confusion.     All  this  is  avoided  by  every  man's  yielding  a  little. 

Instead  of  advancing  square,  stiff,  with  arms  stuck  out,  every  one  who 
knows  how  to  walk  the  streets  glides  along,  his  arms  close,  his  body 
oblique  and  flexible,  his  track  gently  winding,  leaving  now  a  few  inches 
on  this  side,  now  on  that,  so  as  to  pass  and  be  passed  without  touching, 
in  the  smallest  possible  space. 

He  pushes  no  one  into  the  kennel,  nor  goes  into  it  himself.  By 
mutual  accommodation,  the  path,  though  narrow,  holds  them  all. 

He  goes  neither  much  faster  nor  much  slower  than  those  who  go  in  the 
same  direction.  In  the  first  case  he  would  elbow,  in  the  second  he  would 
be  elbowed. 

If  any  accidental  stop  arises,  from  a  carriage  crossing,  a  cask  rolled,  a 
pickpocket  detected,  or  the  like,  he  does  not  increase  the  bustle  by  rushing 
into  the  midst  of  it,  but  checks  his  pace,  and  patiently  waits  for  its  removal. 

Like  this  is  the  march  of  life. 

In  our  progress  through  the  world  a  thousand  things  stand  continually 
m  our  way.  Some  people  meet  us  full  in  the  face  with  opposite  opinions 
and  inclinations.  Some  stand  before  us  in  our  pursuit  of  pleasure  or 
interest,  and  others  follow  close  upon  our  heels.  Now,  we  ought  in  the 
first  place  to  consider,  that  the  road,  is  as  free  for  one  as  another  ;  and 
therefore  we  have  no  right  to  expect  that  persons  should  go  out  of  their 
way  to  let  us  pass,  any  more  than  we  out  of  ours.  Then,  if  we  do  not 
mutually  yield  and  accommodate  a  little,  it  is  clear  that  we  must  all  stand 
still,  or  be  thrown  into  a  perpetual  confusion  of  squeezing  and  jostling. 
If  we  are  all  in  a  hurry  to  get  on  as  fast  as  possible  to  some  point  of 
pleasure  or  interest  in  our  view,  and  do  not  occasionally  hold  back,  when 
the  crowd  gathers,  and  angry  contentions  arise,  we  shall  only  augment 
the  tumult,  without  advancing  our  own  progress.  On  the  whole,  it  is  our 
business  to  move  onward,  steadily,  but  quietly,  obstructing  others  as  little 
as  possible,  yielding  a  little  to  this  man's  prejudices,  and  that  man's  desires, 
and  doing  everything  in  our  power  to  make  the  journey  of  life  easy  to  all 
our  fellow-travellers  as  well  as  to  ourselves. 


Presence  of  Minu,  p.  isa. 

EVENING  XVI. 


THE  COMPOUND-FLOWERED  PLANTS. 

Tutor —  George— Harry. 

George.  Harry,  can  you  blow  off  all  of  these  dandelion  feathers  at  a 
puff? 

Harry.  I  will  try. 

Geo.  See — you  have  left  almost  half  of  them. 

Har.  Can  you  do  better  ? 

Geo.  Yes — look  here. 

Har.  There  are  still  several  left. 

189 


190  SIXTEENTH    EVENING. 

Tut.  A  pretty  child's  play  you  have  got  there.  Bring  me  one  of  the 
dandelion  heads,  and  let  us  see  if  we  can  make  no  other  use  of  it. 

Har.  Here  is  a  very  full  one. 

Tut.  Do  you  know  what  these  feathers,  as  you  call  them,  are  ? 

Geo.  I  believe  they  belong  to  the  seed. 

Tut.  They  do,  and  they  are  worth  examining.  Look  at  this  single  one 
through  my  magnifying  glass ;  you  observe  the  seed  at  the  bottom,  like 
the  point  of  a  dart.  From  it  springs  a  slender  hairy  shaft  crowned  by  a 
very  elegant  spreading  plume.  You  see  it  is  a  complete  arrow  of  Nature's 
manufacture. 

Geo.  How  exact ! 

Har.  What  a  beautiful  thing ! 

Tut.  I  am  sure  you  see  the  use  of  it  at  once. 

Geo.  It  is  to  set  the  seeds  a  flying  with  the  wind. 

Har.  And  I  suppose  they  sow  themselves  where  they  light? 

Tut.  They  do.  This  is  one  of  Nature's  contrivances  for  dissemina- 
tion, or  that  scattering  of  the  seeds  of  plants  which  makes  them  reach  all 
the  places  proper  for  their  growth.  I  dare  say  you  have  observed  other 
plants  furnished  with  the  same  winged  or  feathered  seeds. 

Har.  O  yes — there  are  groundsel,  and  ragwort,  and  thistles. 

Geo.  In  a  windy  day  I  have  seen  the  air  all  full  of  thistle-down. 

Tut.  Very  likely  :  and  for  that  reason  you  never  saw  a  new-made  bank 
of  earth,  or  a  heap  of  dung  in  the  fields,  but  it  was  presently  covered  with 
thistles.  These,  and  the  other  plants  that  have  been  named,  belong  to  a 
very  extensive  class,  which  it  is  worth  while  being  acquainted  with. 
They  are  called  the  compound-flowered  plants. 

Geo.  Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  give  us  a  lecture  about  them  ? 

Tut,  With  all  my  heart.  Get  me  a  dandelion  in  flower,  a  thistle-head, 
and  a  daisy — if  you  cannot  find  a  common  daisy,  one  of  the  great  ox-eye 
daisies  in  the  corn  will  do  as  well. 

Geo.  and  Har.  Here  they  are. 

Tut.  Very  well.  All  these  are  compound  flowers ;  for  if  you  will 
examine  them  narrowly,  you  will  perceive  that  they  consist  of  a  number 
of  little  flowers,  ox  florets,  enclosed  in  a  common  cup,  which  cup  is  made 
of  a  number  of  scales,  lying  on  each  other  like  the  tiles  of  a  house. 

Geo.  I  see  it. 

Tut.  The  florets  are  not  all  alike  in  shape.  In  the  dandelion  you  will 
observe  that  they  consist  of  a  tube,  from  which,  at  its  upper  end,  proceeds 


COMPOUND   FLOWERS.  191 

a  sort  of  strap-shaped  tongue  or  fillet  ;  in  the  thistle  they  are  tubular  or 
funnel-shaped  throughout ;  in  the  daisy  the  centre  ones,  which  form  the 
disk,  as  it  is  called,  are  tubular,  while  those  in  the  circumference  nave  a 
broad  strap  on  one  side,  which  altogether  compose  the  rays  of  the  flowers ; 
whence  this  sort  are  called  radiated.  Now  take  the  glass  and  examine 
the  florets  singly.     Can  you  discern  their  chives  and  pointals  ? 

Geo.  I  can. 

Tut.  You  may  remark  that  there  are  five  chives  to  each,  the  tips  of 
which  unite  into  a  tube,  through  which  the  pointal  passes,  having  its 
summit  doubled,  and  curled  back. 

Har.  I  can  just  make  it  out  with  the  glass,  but  hardly  with  the  naked  eye. 

Tut.  It  is  from  this  circumstance  of  the  tips  of  the  chives  growing 
together  that  Linnaeus  has  taken  his  distinction  of  the  whole  class ;  and 
he  has  named  it  Syngenesia,  from  two  Greek  words  having  that  signifi- 
cation. You  will  further  observe  that  all  these  florets  stand  upon  a  stool 
or  receptacle  at  the  bottom  of  the  flower,  which  is  the  cushion  left  on  the 
dandelion-stalk  after  the  seeds  are  blown  away.  Into  this  the  seeds  are 
slightly  stuck,  which  are  one  apiece  to  every  perfect  or  fertile  floret.  This 
is  the  general  structure  of  the  compound  flowers. 

Har.  Are  all  their  seeds  feathered  ? 

Tut.  Not  all.  These  of  the  daisy  are  not.  But  in  a  great  many 
species  they  are. 

Har.  I  should  have  thought  these  were  a  very  useful  class  of  plants  by 
the  pains  nature  has  taken  to  spread  them,  if  you  had  not  told  us  that 
thistles,  and  ragwort,  and  groundsel,  were  some  of  them. 

Tut.  And  if  you  do  not  confine  your  idea  of  usefulness  to  what  is 
serviceable  to  man,  but  extend  it  to  the  whole  creation,  you  may  safely 
conclude,  from  their  abundance,  that  they  must  be  highly  useful  in  the 
general  economy  of  nature.  In  fact,  no  plants  feed  a  greater  number  of 
insects,  and  none  are  more  important  to  the  small  birds,  to  whom  they 
furnish  food  by  their  seeds,  and  a  fine  warm  down  for  lining  their  nests. 
On  the  approach  of  winter  you  may  see  whole  flocks  of  linnets  and  gold- 
finches pecking  among  the  thistles;  and  you  know  that  groundsel  is  a 
favourite  treat  to  birds  in  a  cage.  To  man,  however,  they  are  for  the 
most  part  troublesome  and  unsightly  weeds.  Burdock,  thistles,  and  yar- 
row, overrun  his  hedge-banks ;  dandelion,  and  hawkweed,  which  much 
resembles  it,  fill  his  meadows ;  the  tall  and  branching  ragwort,  and  blue 
succory,  cumber   his  pastures;  and  wild  camomile,  ox-eye,  and  corn- 


192  SIXTEENTH    EVENING. 

marygold,  choke  up  his  cornfields.  These  plants  in  general  have  a  bitter 
nauseous  taste,  so  that  no  cattle  will  touch  them.  Daisies,  I  believe,  are 
the  chief  exception. 

Geo.  But  some  of  them,  I  suppose,  are  useful  to  man  ? 

Tut.  Yes,  several,  and  in  various  ways.  Some  that  have  milky  bitter 
juices  are  employed  in  medicine  for  purifying  the  blood  and  removing 
obstructions.  Of  these  are  dandelion,  succory,  and  sow-thistle.  Many 
others  are  bitter,  and  strongly  aromatic ;  as  camomile,  wormwood, 
southernwood,  feverfew,  and  tansy ;  these  are  good  for  strengthening  the 
stomach  and  expelling  worms.  That  capital  ingredient  in  salad,  lettuce, 
is  of  this  class,  and  so  is  endive.  Artichoke  forms  a  very  singular  article 
of  diet,  for  the  part  chiefly  eaten,  called  the  bottom,  is  the  receptacle  of 
the  flower,  upon  which  the  choke,  or  seeds  with  their  feathers,  is  placed. 
It  is  said  that  some  of  the  larger  species  of  thistles  may  be  dressed  and 
eaten  the  same  way.  Then  there  is  Jerusalem  artichoke,  which  is  the 
root  of  a  species  of  sunflower,  and,  when  boiled,  much  resembles  in 
taste  an  artichoke  bottom.  On  the  whole,  however,  a  very  small  propor- 
tion of  this  class  of  plants  is  used  in  food. 

Geo.  Are  there  no  garden-flowers  belonging  to  them  ? 

Tut.  Several,  especially  of  the  autumnal  ones.  There  are  sunflowers 
of  various  kinds,  which  are  the  largest  flowers  the  garden  produces,  though 
not  the  most  sightly ;  marygolds,  both  the  common,  and  the  French  and 
African,  asters,  china-asters,  golden-rod,  and  chrysanthemums.  Very 
few  flowers  of  this  class  have  an  agreeable  scent,  and  their  shape  is  not 
the  most  pleasing ;  but  they  have  often  gay  colours,  and  make  a  figure  in 
the  garden  when  other  things  are  over.  Well — this  is  most  that  I  recollect 
worth  noticing  of  the  compound-flowered  plants.  They  are  a  difficult  class 
to  make  out  botanically,  though  pretty  easily  known  from  each  other  by 
sight.  I  will  take  care  to  point  out  to  you  the  principal  of  them  that  we 
meet  with  in  our  walks,  and  you  must  get  acquainted  with  them. 

ON  PRESENCE  OP  MIND. 

Mrs.  F.  one  day  having  occasion  to  be  blooded,  sent  for  a  surgeon. 
As  soon  as  he  entered  the  room,  her  young  daughter,  Eliza,  started  up, 
and  was  hastily  going  away,  when  her  mother  called  her  back. 

Mrs.  F.  Eliza,  do  not  go,  I  want  you  to  stay  by  me. 

Eliz,  Dear  mamma !  I  can  never  bear  to  see  you  blooded. 


PRESENCE    OF    MIND.  193 

Mrs.  F.  Why  not?  what  harm  will  it  do  you? 

Eliz.  O  dear !  I  cannot  look  at  blood.  Besides,  I  cannot  bear  to  see 
you  hurt,  mamma ! 

Mrs.  F.  Oh,  if  I  can  bear  to  feel  it,  surely  you  may  to  see  it.  But, 
come — you  must  stay,  and  we  will  talk  about  it  afterward. 

Eliza,  then,  pale  and  trembling,  stood  by  her  mother  and  saw  the  whole 
operation.  She  could  not  help,  however,  turning  her  head  away  when 
the  incision  was  made,  and  the  first  flow  of  blood  made  her  start  and 
shudder.  When  all  was  over,  and  the  surgeon  gone,  Mrs.  F.  began. 

Mrs.  F.  Well,  Eliza,  what  do  you  think  of  the  mighty  matter  now  ? 
Would  it  not  have  been  very  foolish  to  have  run  away  from  it  ? 

Eliz.  O  mamma  !  how  frightened  I  was  when  he  took  out  his  lancet. 
Did  it  not  hurt  you  a  great  deal  ? 

Mrs.  F.  No,  very  little.   And  if  it  had,  it  was  to  do  me  good,  you  know. 

Eliz.  But  why  should  I  stay  to  see  it?     I  could  do  you  no  good. 

Mrs.  F.  Perhaps  not;  but  it  will  do  you  good  to  be  accustomed  to  such 
sights. 

Eliz.  Why,  mamma  ? 

Mrs.  F.  Because  instances  are  every  day  happening  in  which  it  is  our 
duty  to  assist  fellow-creatures  in  circumstances  of  pain  and  distress ;  and 
if  we  were  to  indulge  a  reluctance  to  come  near  to  them  on  those  occasions, 
we  should  never  acquire  either  the  knowledge  or  the  presence  of  mind 
necessary  for  the  purpose. 

Eliz.  But  if  I  had  been  told  how  to  help  people  in  such  cases,  could 
not  I  do  it  without  being  used  to  see  them? 

Mrs.  F.  No.  We  have  all  naturally  a  horror  at  everything  which  is 
the  cause  of  pain  and  danger  to  ourselves  or  others  ;  and  nothing  but 
habit  can  give  most  of  us  the  presence  of  mind  necessary  to  enable  us  in 
such  occurrences  to  employ  our  knowledge  to  the  best  advantage. 

Eliz.  What  is  presence  of  mind,  mamma  ? 

Mrs.  F.  It  is  that  steady  possession  of  ourselves  in  cases  of  alarm,  that 
prevents  us  from  being  flurried  and  frightened.  You  have  heard  the 
expression  of  having  all  our  wits  about  us.  That  is  the  effect  of  presence 
of  mind,  and  a  most  inestimable  quality  it  is,  for  without  it  we  are  full  as 
likely  to  run  into  danger  as  to  avoid  it.  Do  you  not  remember  hearing  01 
your  cousin  Mary's  cap  taking  fire  from  a  candle? 

Eliz.  O  yes — very  well. 

Mrs.  F.  Well — the  maid,  as  soon  as  she  saw  it,  set  up  a  great  scream, 

9 


194  SIXTEENTH    EVENING. 

and  ran  out  of  the  room  ;  and  Mary  might  have  been  burnt  to  death  for 
any  assistance  she  could  give  her. 

Eliz.  How  foolish  that  was ! 

Mrs.  F.  Yes — the  girl  had  not  the  least  presence  of  mind,  and  the 
consequence  was,  depriving  her  of  all  recollection,  and  making  her  entirely 
useless.  But  as  soon  as  your  aunt  came  up,  she  took  the  right  method 
for  preventing  the  mischief.  The  cap  was  too  much  on  fire  to  be  pulled 
off;  so  she  whipped  a  quilt  from  the  bed  and  flung  it  round  Mary's  head, 
and  thus  stifled  the  flame. 

Eliz.  Mary  was  a  good  deal  scorched,  though. 

Mrs.  F.  Yes — but  it  was  very  well  that  it  was  no  worse.  If  the  maid, 
however,  had  acted  with  any  sense  at  first,  no  harm  would  have  been 
done,  except  burning  the  cap.  I  remember  a  much  more  fatal  example  of 
the  want  of  presence  of  mind.  The  mistress  of  a  family  was  awakened 
by  flames  bursting  through  the  wainscot  into  her  chamber.  She  flew  to 
the  staircase  ;  and  in  her  confusion,  instead  of  going  upstairs  to  call  her 
children,  who  slept  together  in  the  nursery  overhead,  and  who  might  all 
have  escaped  by  the  top  of  the  house,  she  ran  down,  and  with  much 
danger  made  way  through  the  fire,  into  the  street.  When  she  had  got 
thither,  the  thought  of  her  poor  children  rushed  into  her  mind,  but  it  was 
too  late.  The  stairs  had  caught  fire,  so  that  nobody  could  get  near  them, 
and  they  were  burnt  in  their  beds. 

Eliz.  What  a  sad  thing  ! 

Mrs.  F.  Sad,  indeed  !  Now,  I  will  tell  you  of  a  different  conduct.  A 
lady  was  awakened  by  the  crackling  of  fire,  and  saw  it  shining  under  her 
chamber-door.  Her  husband  would  have  immediately  opened  the  door, 
but  she  prevented  him,  since  the  smoke  and  flame  would  then  have  burst 
in  upon  them. 

The  children  with  a  maid  slept  in  a  room  opening  out  of  theirs.  She 
went  and  awakened  them ;  and  tying  together  the  sheets  and  blankets, 
she  sent  down  the  maid  from  the  window  first,  and  then  let  down  the 
children  one  by  one  to  her.  Last  of  all  she  descended  herself.  A  few 
minutes  after,  the  floor  fell  in,  and  all  the  house  was  in  flames. 

Eliz.  What  a  happy  escape  ! 

Mrs.  F.  Yes — and  with  what  cool  recollection  of  mind  it  was  managed ! 
For  mothers  to  love  their  children,  and  be  willing  to  run  any  hazards  for 
them,  is  common ;  but  in  weak  minds  that  very  love  is  apt  to  prevent 
exertions  in  the  time  of  danger.     I  knew  a  lady  who  had  a  fine  little  boy 


PRESENCE    OF    MIND.  195 

sitting  in  her  lap.  He  put  a  whole  plum  into  his  mouth,  which  slipped 
into  his  throat  and  choked  him.  The  poor  fellow  turned  black,  and 
struggled  violently ;  and  the  mother  was  so  frightened,  that  instead  of 
putting  her  finger  in  his  throat,  and  pulling  out  the  plum,  which  might 
easily  have  been  done,  she  laid  him  on  the  floor,  and  ran  to  call  for  assist- 
ance. But  the  maids  who  came  up  were  as  much  flurried  as  she ;  and 
the  child  died  before  anything  effectual  was  done  to  relieve  him. 

Eliz.  How  unhappy  she  must  have  been  about  it ! 

Mrs.  F.  Yes.  It  threw  her  into  an  illness  which  had  liked  to  have 
cost  her  her  life. 

Another  lady,  seeing  her  little  boy  climb  up  a  high  ladder,  set  up  a 
violent  scream  that  frightened  the  child,  so  that  he  fell  down  and  was 
much  hurt ;  whereas,  if  she  had  possessed  command  enough  over  herself 
to  speak  to  him  gently,  he  might  have  got  down  safely. 

Eliz.  Dear  mamma!  what  is  that  running  down  your  arm? — O,  it  is 
blood ! 

Mrs.  F.  Yes — my  arm  bleeds  again.     I  have  stirred  it  too  soon. 

Eliz.  Dear !  What  shall  I  do  ? 

Mrs.  F.  Do  n't  frighten  yourself.  I  shall  stop  the  blood  by  pressing  on 
the  orifice  with  my  finger.     In  the  meantime,  do  you  ring  the  bell. 

[Eliza  rings — a  servant  comes. 

Mrs.  F.  Betty,  my  arm  bleeds.     Can  you  tie  it  up  again  ? 

Betty.  I  believe  I  can,  madam. 

[She  takes  off  the  bandage  and  puts  on  another. 

Eliz.  I  hope  it  is  stopped  now  ? 

Mrs.  F.  It  is.  Betty  has  done  it  very  well.  You  see  she  went  about  it 
with  composure.  This  accident  puts  me  in  mind  of  another  story  which 
is  very  well  worth  hearing.  A  man  once  reaping  in  the  field,  cut  his  arm 
dreadfully  with  his  sickle,  and  divided  an  artery. 

Eliz.  What  is  that,  mamma  ? 

Mrs.  F.  It  is  one  of  the  canals  or  pipes  through  which  the  blood  from 
the  heart  runs  like  water  in  a  pipe  brought  from  a  reservoir.  When  one 
of  these  is  cut  it  bleeds  very  violently,  and  the  only  way  to  stop  it  is  to 
make  a  pressure  between  the  wounded  place  and  the  heart,  in  order  to 
intercept  the  course  of  the  blood  toward  it.  Well — this  poor  man  bled 
profusely ;  and  the  people  about  him,  both  men  and  women,  were  so 
stupified  with  fright,  that  some  ran  one  way,  some  another,  and  some 
stood  stock  still.    In  short,  he  would  have  soon  bled  to  death,  had  not  a 


196  SIXTEENTH    EVENING. 

brisk  stout-hearted  wench,  who  came  up,  slipped  off  her  garter,  and  bound 
it  tight  above  the  wound,  by  which  means  the  bleeding  was  stopped  till 
proper  help  could  be  procured. 

Eliz.  What  a  clever  wench !     But  how  did  she  know  what  to  do  ? 

Mrs.  F.  She  had  perhaps  heard  it,  as  you  have  done  now ;  and  so 
probably  had  some  of  the  others,  but  they  had  not  presence  of  mind 
enough  to  put  it  into  practice.  It  is  a  much  greater  trial  of  courage, 
however,  when  the  danger  presses  upon  ourselves  as  well  as  others. 
Suppose  a  furious  bull  was  to  come  upon  you  in  the  midst  of  a  field. 
You  could  not  possibly  escape  him  by  running,  and  attempting  it  would 
destroy  your  only  chance  of  safety. 

Eliz.  What  would  that  be  1 

Mrs.  F.  I  have  a  story  for  that,  too.  The  mother  of  that  Mr.  Day,  who 
wrote  Sandford  and  Merton,  was  distinguished,  as  he  also  was,  for 
courage  and  presence  of  mind.  When  a  young  woman,  she  was  one  day 
walking  in  the  fields  with  a  companion,  when  they  perceived  a  bull  coming 
to  them,  roaring  and  tossing  about  his  head  in  the  most  tremendous  manner. 

Eliz.  O,  how  I  should  have  screamed ! 

Mrs.  F.  I  dare  say  you  would ;  and  so  did  her  companion.  But  she 
bid  her  walk  away  behind  her  as  gently  as  she  could,  while  she  herself 
stopped  short,  and  faced  the  bull,  eying  him  with  a  determined  countenance. 
The  bull,  when  he  had  come  near,  stopped  also,  pawing  the  ground  and 
roaring.  Few  animals  will  attack  a  man  who  steadily  waits  for  him.  In 
a  while,  she  drew  back  some  steps,  still  facing  the  bull.  The  bull  followed. 
She  stopped,  and  then  he  stopped.  In  this  manner,  she  made  good  her 
retreat  to  the  stile  over  which  her  companion  had  before  got.  She  then 
turned  and  sprung  over  it ;  and  got  clear  out  of  danger. 

Eliz.  That  was  bravely  done,  indeed!  But  I  think  very  few  women 
could  have  done  as  much. 

Mrs.  F.  Such  a  degree  of  cool  resolution,  to  be  sure,  is  not  common. 
But  I  have  read  of  a  lady  in  the  East  Indies  who  showed  at  least  as  much. 
She  was  sitting  out  of  doors  with  a  party  of  pleasure,  when  they  were 
aware  of  a  huge  tiger  that  had  crept  through  a  hedge  near  them,  and  was 
just  ready  to  make  his  fatal  spring.  They  were  struck  with  the  utmost 
consternation  ;  but  she,  with  an  umbrella  in  her  hand,  turned  to  the  tiger, 
and  suddenly  spread  it  full  in  his  face.  This  unusual  assault  so  terrified 
the  beast,  that,  taking  a  prodigious  leap,  he  sprung  over  the  fence,  and 
plunged  out  of  sight  into  the  neighbouring  thicket. 


PRESENCE    OF    MIND.  197 

Eliz.  Well — that  was  the  boldest  thing  I  ever  heard  of!  But  is  it 
possible,  mamma,  to  make  one's  self  courageous ? 

Mrs.  F.  Courage,  my  dear,  is  of  two  kinds ;  one  the  gift  of  nature,  the 
other  of  reason  and  habit.  Men  have  naturally  more  courage  than 
women ;  that  is,  they  are  less  affected  by  danger;  it  makes  a  less  impression 
upon  them,  and  does  not  flutter  their  spirits  so  much.  This  is  owing  to 
the  difference  of  their  bodily  constitution ;  and  from  the  same  cause  some 
men  and  some  women  are  more  courageous  than  others.  But  the  other 
kind  of  courage  may  in  some  measure  be  acquired  by  every  one.  Reason 
teaches  us  to  face  smaller  dangers  in  order  to  avoid  greater,  and  even  to 
undergo  the  greatest  when  our  duty  requires  it.  Habit  makes  us  less 
affected  by  particular  dangers  which  have  often  come  in  our  way.  A 
sailor  does  not  feel  the  danger  of  a  storm  so  much  as  a  landsman,  but  if 
he  was  mounted  upon  a  spirited  horse  in  a  fox-chase,  he  would  probably 
be  the  most  timorous  man  in  company.  The  courage  of  women  is  chiefly 
tried  in  domestic  dangers.  They  are  attendants  on  the  sick  and  dying; 
and  they  must  qualify  themselves  to  go  through  many  scenes  of  terror  in 
these  situations,  which  would  alarm  the  stoutest-hearted  man  who  was 
not  accustomed  to  them. 

Eliz.  I  have  heard  that  women  generally  bear  pain  and  illness  better 
than  men. 

Mrs.  F.  They  do  so,  because  they  are  more  used  to  them,  both  in 
themselves  and  others. 

Eliz.  I  think  I  should  not  be  afraid  again  to  see  anybody  blooded. 

Mrs.  F.  I  hope  not.  It  was  for  that  purpose  I  made  you  stand  by  me. 
And  I  would  have  you  always  force  yourself  to  look  on  and  give  assistance 
in  cases  of  this  kind,  however  painful  it  may  at  first  be  to  you,  that  you 
may  as  soon  as  possible  gain  that  presence  of  mind  which  arises  from 
habit. 

Eliz.  But  would  that  make  me  like  to  be  blooded  myself? 

Mrs.  F.  Not  to  like  it,  but  to  lose  all  foolish  fears  about  it,  and  submit 
calmly  to  it  when  good  for  you.  But  I  hope  you  have  sense  enough  to  do 
that  already. 


Why  an  Apple  falls,  p.  203. 

EVENING  XVII. 


PHAETON  JUNIOR :  ob,  The  Gig  Demolished. 

Ye  heroes  of  the  upper  form, 
Who  long  for  whip  and  reins, 

Come  listen  to  a  dismal  tale, 
Set  forth  in  dismal  strains. 

Young  Jehu  was  a  lad  of  fame 

As  all  the  school  could  tell  ; 
At  cricket,  taw,  and  prison-bars, 

He  bore  away  the  bell. 


19S 


PHAETON    JUNIOR.  199 

Now  welcome  Whitsuntide  was  come, 

And  boys  with  merry  hearts 
Were  gone  to  visit  dear  mamma, 

And  eat  her  pies  and  tarts. 

As  soon  as  Jehu  saw  his  sire, 

"  A  boon  !  a  boon !"  he  cried ; 
"  O,  if  I  am  your  darling  boy, 

Let  me  not  be  denied." 

"  My  darling  boy  indeed  thou  art," 

The  father  wise  replied ; 
"  So  name  the  boon ;  I  promise  thee 

It  shall  not  be  denied." 

"  Then  give  me,  sir,  your  long-lashed  whip, 

And  give  your  gig  and  pair, 
To  drive  alone  to  yonder  town, 

And  flourish  through  the  fair." 

The  father  shook  his  head  ;  "  My  son, 

You  know  not  what  you  ask ; 
To  drive  a  gig  in  crowded  streets 

Is  no  such  easy  task. 

"The  horses,  full  of  rest  and  corn, 

Scarce  I  myself  can  guide ; 
And  much  I  fear,  if  you  attempt, 

Some  mischief  will  betide. 

"  Then  think,  dear  boy,  of  something  else, 

That's  better  worth  your  wishing; 
A  bow  and  quiver,  bats  and  balls, 

A  rod  and  lines  for  fishing." 

But  nothing  could  young  Jehu  please 

Except  a  touch  at  driving ; 
*T  was  all  in  vain,  his  father  found, 

To  spend  his  breath  in  striving. 


200  SEVENTEENTH    EVENING. 

"  At  least,  attend,  rash  boy  !"  he  cried, 

"  And  follow  good  advice, 
Or  in  a  ditch  both  gig  and  you 

Will  tumble  in  a  trice. 

"  Spare,  spare  the  whip,  hold  hard  the  reins. 

The  steeds  go  fast  enough  ; 
Keep  in  the  middle  beaten  track, 

Nor  cross  the  ruts  so  rough  : 

"  And  when  within  the  town  you  come, 
Be  sure,  with  special  care, 
Drive  clear  of  signposts,  booths,  and  stalls 
And  monsters  of  the  fair." 

The  youth  scarce  heard  his  father  out, 
But  roared — "Bring  out  the  whiskey !" 

With  joy  he  viewed  the  rolling  wheels, 
And  prancing  ponies  frisky.     \ 

He  seized  the  reins,  and  up  he  sprung, 
And  waved  the  whistling  lash ; 

"  Take  care;  take  care  !"  his  father  cried: 
But  off  he  went  slap- dash. 

"Who's  this  light  spark?"  the  horses  thought, 
"  We  '11  try  your  strength,  young  master ;" 

So  o'er  the  ragged  turnpike-road 
Still  faster  ran  and  faster. 

Young  Jehu,  tottering  in  his  seat, 
Now  wished  to  pull  them  in  ; 

But  pulling  from  so  young  a  hand 
They  valued  not  a  pin. 

A  drove  of  grunting  pigs  before 

Now  filled  up  half  the  way  ; 
Dash  through  the  midst  the  horses  drove 

And  made  a  rueful  day  : 


PHAETON    JUNIOR  201 

For  some  were  trampled  under  foot, 

Some  crushed  beneath  the  wheel ; 
Lord !  how  the  drivers  cursed  and  swore 

And  how  the  pigs  did  squeal ! 

A  farmer's  wife,  on  old  blind  Ball, 

Went  slowly  on  the  road, 
With  butter,  eggs,  and  cheese,  and  cream. 

In  two  large  panniers  stowed. 

Ere  Ball  could  stride  the  rut,  amain 

The  gig  came  thundering  on, 
Crash  went  the  panniers,  and  the  dame 

And  Ball  lay  overthrown. 

Now  through  the  town  the  mettled  pair 

Ran  rattling  o'er  the  stones  ; 
They  drove  the  crowd  from  side  to  side 

And  shook  poor  Jehu's  bones. 

When,  lo  !  directly  in  their  course, 

A  monstrous  form  appeared — 
A  shaggy  bear  that  stalked  and  roared 

On  hinder  legs  upreared. 

Sidewise  they  started  at  the  sight, 

And  whisked  the  gig  half  round, 
Then  'cross  the  crowded  market-place 

They  flew  with  furious  bound. 

First  o'er  a  heap  of  crockery-ware 

The  rapid  car  they  whirled  ; 
And  jugs,  and  mugs,  and  pots,  and  pans, 

In  fragments  wide  they  hurled. 

A  booth  stood  near  with  tempting  cakes 

And  grocery  richly  fraught ; 
All  Birmingham  on  t'  other  side 

The  dazzling  optics  caught 
9* 


202  SEVENTEENTH    EVENING. 

With  active  spring  the  nimble  steeds 
Rushed  through  the  pass  between, 

And  scarcely  touched ;  the  car  behind 
Got  through  not  quite  so  clean  : 

For  while  one  wheel  one  stall  engaged, 

Its  fellow  took  the  other ; 
Dire  was  the  clash  ;  down  fell  the  booths, 

And  made  a  dreadful  pother. 

Nuts,  oranges,  and  gingerbread, 
And  figs  here  rolled  around ; 

And  scissors,  knives,  and  thimbles  there 
Bestrewed  the  glittering  ground. 

The  fall  of  boards,  the  shouts  and  cries, 
Urged  on  the  horses  faster; 

And  as  they  flew,  at  every  step, 
They  caused  some  new  disaster. 

Here  lay  o'erturned,  in  woful  plight, 

A  pedlar  and  his  pack ; 
There,  in  a  showman's  broken  box, 

All  London  went  to  wrack. 

But  now  the  fates  decreed  to  stop 

The  ruin  of  the  day, 
And  make  the  gig  and  driver  too 

A  heavy  reckoning  pay. 

A  ditch  there  lay  both  broad  and  deep, 
Where  streams  as  black  as  Styx 

From  every  quarter  of  the  town 
Their  muddy  currents  mix. 

Down  to  its  brink  in  heedless  haste 

The  frantic  horses  flew, 
And  in  the  midst,  with  sudden  jerk, 

Their  burden  overthrew. 


PHAETON    JUNIOR.  203 

The  prostrate  gig  with  desperate  force 

They  soon  pulled  out  again, 
And  at  their  heels  in  ruin  dire 

Dragged  lumbering  o'er  the  plain. 

Here  lay  a  wheel,  the  axle  there, 

The  body  there  remained, 
Till  severed  Hmb  from  limb,  the  car 

Nor  name  nor  shape  retained. 

But  Jehu  must  not  be  forgot, 

Left  floundering  in  the  flood, 
With  clothes  all  drenched,  and  mouth  and  eyes 

Beplastered  o'er  with  mud. 

In  piteous  case  he  waded  through 

And  gained  the  slippery  side, 
Where  grinning  crowds  were  gathered  round 

To  mock  his  fallen  pride. 

They  led  him  to  a  neighbouring  pump 

To  clear  his  dismal  face, 
Whence  cold  and  heartless  home  he  slunk. 

Involved  in  sore  disgrace. 

And  many  a  bill  for  damage  done 

His  father  had  to  pay. 
Take  warning,  youthful  drivers,  all ! 

From  Jehu's  first  essay. 


WHY  AN  APPLE  FALLS. 

"  Papa,"  said  Lucy,  "  I  have  been  reading  to-day,  that  Sir  Isaac  Newton 
was  led  to  make  some  of  his  great  discoveries  by  seeing  an  apple  fall  from 
a  tree.     What  was  there  extraordinary  in  that  ?" 

Papa.  There  was  nothing  extraordinary ;  but  it  happened  to  catch  his 
attention,  and  set  him  to  thinking. 

Lucy.  And  what  did  he  think  about  ? 

Pa.  He  thought  by  what  means  the  apple  was  brought  to  the  ground. 


204  SEVENTEENTH    EVENING. 

Lu.  Why,  I  could  have  told  him  that — because  the  stalk  gave  way,  and 
there  was  nothing  to  support  it. 

Pa.  And  what  tjien  ? 

Lu.  Why,  then  it  must  fall,  you  know. 

Pa.  But  why  must  it  fall  ? — that  is  the  point. 

Lu.  Because  it  could  not  help  it. 

Pa.  But  why  could  it  not  help  it  1 

Lu.  I  do  n't  know — that  is  an  odd  question.  Because  there  was  nothing 
to  keep  it  up. 

Pa.  Suppose  there  was  not — does  it  follow  that  it  must  come  to  the 
ground  ? 

Lu.  Yes,  surely  ! 

Pa.  Is  an  apple  animate  or  inanimate  ? 

Lu.  Inanimate,  to  be  sure ! 

Pa.  And  can  inanimate  things  move  of  themselves  ? 

Lu.  No — I  think  not — but  the  apple  falls  because  it  is  forced  to  fall. 

Pa.  Right !  Some  force  out  of  itself  acts  upon  it,  otherwise  it  would 
remain  for  ever  where  it  was,  notwithstanding  it  were  loosened  from  the 
tree. 

Lu.  Would  it  ? 

Pa.  Undoubtedly !  for  there  only  two  ways  in  which  it  could  be  moved  ; 
by  its  own  power  of  motion,  or  the  power  of  something  else  moving  it. 
Now  the  first  you  acknowledge  it  has  not ;  the  cause  of  its  motion  must 
therefore  be  the  second.  And  what  that  is  was  the  subject  of  the  philoso- 
pher's inquiry. 

Lu.  But  everything  falls  to  the  ground  as  well  as  an  apple,  when  there 
is  nothing  to  keep  it  up. 

Pa.  True — there  must  therefore  be  a  universal  cause  of  this  tendencv 
to  fall. 

Lu.  And  what  is  it  ? 

Pa.  Why,  if  things  out  of  the  earth  cannot  move  themselves  to  it,  there 
can  be  no  other  cause  of  their  coming  together  than  that  the  earth  pulls  them. 

Lu.  But  the  earth  is  no  more  animate  than  they  are :  so  how  can  it  pull? 

Pa.  Well  objected  !  This  will  bring  us  to  the  point.  Sir  Isaac 
Newton,  after  deep  meditation,  discovered,  that  there  was  a  law  in  nature 
called  attraction,  by  virtue  of  which  every  particle  of  matter,  that  is, 
everything  of  which  the  world  is  composed,  draws  toward  it  every  other 
particle  of  matter,  with  a  force  proportioned  to  its  size  and  distance.     Lay 


WHY    AN    APPLE    FALLS.  205 

two  marbles  on  the  table.  They  have  a  tendency  to  come  together,  and 
if  there  were  nothing  else  in  the  world  they  would  come  together,  but  they 
aie  also  attracted  by  the  table,  by  the  ground,  and  by  everything  besides 
in  the  room  ;  and  these  different  attractions  pull  against  each  other.  Now, 
the  globe  of  the  earth  is  a  prodigious  mass  of  matter,  to  which  nothing 
near  it  can  bear  any  comparison.  It  draws,  therefore,  with  mighty  force, 
everything  within  its  reach,  which  is  the  cause  of  their  falling:  and 
this  is  called  the  gravitation  of  bodies,  or  what  gives  them  weight. 
When  I  lift  anything,  I  act  contrary  to  this  force,  for  which  reason  it 
seems  heavy  to  me,  and  the  heavier  the  more  matter  it  contains,  since 
that  increases  the  attraction  of  the  earth  for  it.     Do  you  understand  this  7 

Lu.  I  think  I  do.     It  is  like  a  loadstone  drawing  a  needle. 

Pa.  Yes;  that  is  an  attraction,  but  of  a  particular  kind,  only  taking 
place  between  the  magnet  and  iron.  But  gravitation,  or  the  attraction  of 
the  earth,  acts  upon  everything  alike. 

Lu.  Then  it  is  pulling  you  and  me  at  this  moment. 

Pa.  It  is. 

Lu.  But  why  do  not  we  stick  to  the  ground,  then  ? 

Pa.  Because,  as  we  are  alive,  we  have  a  power  of  self-motion,  which 
can,  to  a  certain  degree,  overcome  the  attraction  of  the  earth.  But  the 
reason  you  cannot  jump  a  mile  high  as  well  as  a  foot,  is  this  attraction, 
which  limits  the  force  of  your  jump,  and  brings  you  down  again  after  that 
force  is  spent. 

Lu.  I  think,  then,  I  begin  to  understand  what  I  have  heard  of  people 
living  on  the  other  side  of  the  world.  I  believe  they  are  called  antipodes, 
who  have  their  feet  turned  toward  ours,  and  their  heads  in  the  air.  I  used 
to  wonder  how  it  could  be  that  they  did  not  fall  off;  but  I  suppose  the  earth 
pulls  them  to  it. 

Pa.  Very  true.  And  whither  should  tney  fall  1  What  have  they  over 
their  heads  ? 

Lu.  I  don't  know  ;  sky,  I  suppose. 

Pa.  They  have.  This  earth  is  a  vast  ball,  hung  in  the  air,  and  con- 
tinually spinning  round,  and  that  is  the  cause  why  the  sun  and  stars  seem 
to  rise  and  set.  At  noon  we  have  the  sun  over  our  heads,  when  the  anti- 
podes have  the  stars  over  theirs ;  and  at  midnight  the  stars  are  over  our 
heads,  and  the  sun  over  theirs.  So  whither  should  they  fall  to  more  than 
we  ? — to  the  stars  or  the  sun  ? 

Lu.  But  we  are  up,  and  they  are  down. 


206  SEVENTEENTH    EVENING. 

Pa.  What  is  up,  but  from  the  earth  and  toioard  the  sky?  Their  feet 
touch  the  earth,  and  their  heads  point  to  the  sky,  as  well  as  ours ;  and  we 
are  under  their  feet,  as  much  as  they  are  under  ours.  If  a  hole  were  dug 
quite  through  the  earth,  what  would  you  see  through  it  ? 

Lu.  Sky,  with  the  sun  or  the  stars  ;  and  now  I  see  the  whole  matter 
plainly.     But  pray  what  supports  the  earth  in  the  air? 

Pa.  Why,  whither  should  it  go? 

Lu.  I  don't  know — I  suppose  where  there  was  most  to  draw  it.  I  have 
heard  that  the  sun  is  a  great  many  times  bigger  than  the  earth.  Would 
it  not  go  to  that? 

Pa.  You  have  thought  very  justly  on  the  matter,  I  perceive.  But  I 
shall  take  another  opportunity  of  showing  you  how  this  is,  and  why  the 
earth  does  not  fall  into  the  sun,  of  which,  I  confess,  there  seems  to  be 
some  danger.  Meanwhile,  think  how  far  the  falling  of  an  apple  has 
carried  us? 

Lu.  To  the  antipodes,  and  I  know  not  where. 

Pa.  You  may  see  thence  what  use  may  be  made  of  the  commonest 
fact  by  a  thinking  mind. 

NATURE  AND  EDUCATION.— A  Fable. 

Nature  and  Education  were  one  day  walking  together  through  a  nur- 
sery of  trees.  "See,"  says  Nature,  "how  straight  and  fine  those  firs 
grow — that  is  my  doing !  but  as  to  those  oaks,  they  are  all  crooked  and 
stunted :  that,  my  good  sister,  is  your  fault.  You  have  planted  them  too 
close,  and  not  pruned  them  properly." — "Nay,  sister,"  said  Education,  "I 
am  sure  I  have  taken  all  possible  pains  about  them  ;  but  you  gave  me  bad 
acorns,  so  how  should  they  ever  make  fine  trees  ?" 

The  dispute  grew  warm ;  and,  at  length,  instead  of  blaming  one  another 
for  negligence,  they  began  to  boast  of  their  own  powers,  and  to  challenge 
each  other  to  a  contest  for  the  superiority.  It  was  agreed  that  each  should 
adopt  a  favourite,  and  rear  it  up  in  spite  of  the  ill  offices  of  her  opponent. 
Nature  fixed  upon  a  vigorous  young  Weymouth  pine,  the  parent  of  which 
had  grown  to  be  the  mainmast  of  a  man-of-war.  "  Do  what  you  will  to 
this  plant,"  said  she  to  her  sister,  "  I  am  resolved  to  push  it  up  as  straight 
as  an  arrow."  Education  took  under  her  care  a  crab-tree.  "  This,"  said 
she,  "  I  will  rear  to  be  at  least  as  valuable  as  your  pine." 

Both  went  to  work.    While  Nature  was  feeding  her  pine  with  plenty 


AVERSION    SUBDUED.  207 

of  wholesome  juices,  Education  passed  a  strong  rope  round  its  top,  and 
pulling  it  downward  with  all  its  force,  fastened  it  to  the  trunk  of  a 
neighbouring  oak.  The  pine  laboured  to  ascend,  but  not  being  able  to 
surmount  the  obstacle,  it  pushed  out  to  one  side,  and  presently  became 
bent  like  a  bow.  Still,  such  was  its  vigour,  that  its  top,  after  descending 
as  low  as  its  branches,  made  a  new  shoot  upward:  but  its  beauty  and 
usefulness  were  quite  destroyed. 

The  crab-tree  cost  Education  a  world  of  pains.  She  pruned  and  pruned, 
and  endeavoured  to  bring  it  into  shape,  but  in  vain.  Nature  thrust  out  a 
bough  this  way,  and  a  knot  that  way,  and  would  not  push  a  single  leading 
shoot  upward.  The  trunk  was,  indeed,  kept  tolerably  straight  by  constant 
efforts;  but  the  head  grew  awry  and  ill-fashioned,  and  made  a  scrubby 
figure.  At  length,  Education,  despairing  of  making  a  sightly  plant  of  it, 
ingrafted  the  stock  with  an  apple,  and  brought  it  to  bear  tolerable  fruit. 

At  the  end  of  the  experiment,  the  sisters  met  to  compare  their  respect- 
ive success.  "  Ah,  sister !"  said  Nature,  "  I  see  it  is  in  your  power  to 
spoil  the  best  of  my  works." — "  Ah,  sister  !"  said  Education,  "  it  is  a  hard 
matter  to  contend  against  you — however,  something  may  be  done  by  taking 
pains  enough." 


AVERSION  SUBDUED.-A  Drama.         ££-£« 
Scene — A  Road  in  the  Country, 
Arbury — Belford,  walking. 

BELFORn.  Pray,  who  is  the  present  possessor  of  the  Brookby  estate  ? 

Arbury.  A  man  of  the  name  of  Goodwin. 

Bel.  Is  he  a  good  neighbour  to  you? 

Arb.  Far  from  it !  and  I  wish  he  had  settled  a  hundred  miles  off,  rather 
than  come  here  to  spoil  our  neighbourhood. 

Bel.  I  am  sorry  to  hear  that ;  but  what  is  your  objection  to  him  ? 

Arb.  O,  there  is  nothing  in  which  we  agree.  In  the  first  place  he  is 
quite  of  the  other  side  in  politics  ',  and  that,  you  know,  is  enough  to  pre- 
vent all  intimacy. 

Bel  I  am  not  entirely  of  that  opinion ;  but  what  else  ? 

Arb.  He  is  no  sportsman,  and  refuses  to  join  in  our  association  for 
protecting  the  game.  Neither  does  he  choose  to  be  a  member  of  any  of 
our  clubs. 

Bel.  Has  he  been  asked  ? 


208  SEVENTEENTH    EVENING. 

Arb.  I  don't  know  that  he  has  directly;  but  he  might  easily  propose 
himself,  if  he  liked  it.  But  he  is  of  a  close,  unsociable  temper,  and  I 
believe  very  niggardly. 

Bel.  How  has  he  shown  it  1 

Arb.  His  style  of  living  is  not  equal  to  his  fortune ;  and  I  have  heard 
of  several  instances  of  his  attention  to  petty  economy. 

Bel.  Perhaps  he  spends  money  in  charity  ? 

Arb.  Not  he,  I  dare  say.  It  was  but  last  week  that  a  poor  fellow  who 
had  lost  his  all  by  a  fire  went  to  him  with  a  subscription  paper,  in  which 
were  the  names  of  all  the  gentlemen  in  the  neighbourhood ;  and  all  the 
answer  he  got  was  that  he  would  consider  of  it. 

Bel.  And  did  he  consider  ? 

Arb.  I  don't  know,  but  I  suppose  it  was  only  an  excuse.  Then  his 
predecessor  had  a  park  well  stocked  with  deer,  and  used  to  make  liberal 
presents  of  venison  to  all  his  neighbours.  But  this  frugal  gentleman  has 
sold  them  all  otT,  and  got  a  flock  of  sheep  instead. 

Bel.  I  do  n't  see  much  harm  in  that,  now  mutton  is  so  dear. 

Arb.  To  be  sure  he  has  a  right  to  do  as  he  pleases  with  his  park,  but 
that  is  not  the  way  to  be  beloved,  you  know.  As  to  myself,  I  have  reason 
to  believe  he  bears  me  particular  ill-will. 

Bel.  Then  he  is  much  in  the  wrong,  for  I  believe  you  are  as  free  from 
ill-will  to  others  as  any  man  living.     But  how  has  he  shown  it,  pray  ? 

Arb.  In  twenty  instances.  He  had  a  horse  upon  sale  the  other  day  to 
which  I  took  a  liking,  and  bid  money  for  it.  As  soon  as  he  found  I  was 
about  it,  he  sent  it  off  to  a  fair  on  the  other  side  of  the  county.  My  wife, 
you  know,  is  passionately  fond  of  cultivating  flowers.  Riding  lately  by 
his  grounds,  she  observed  something  new,  and  took  a  great  longing  for  a 
root  or  cutting  of  it.  My  gardener  mentioned  her  wish  to  his,  (contrary, 
I  own,  to  my  inclination,)  and  he  told  his  master ;  but  instead  of  obliging 
her,  he  charged  the  gardener  on  no  account  to  touch  the  plant.  A  little 
while  ago  I  turned  off  a  man  for  saucy  behaviour ;  but  as  he  had  lived 
many  years  with  me,  and  was  a  very  useful  servant,  I  meant  to  take  him 
again  upon  his  submission,  which  I  did  not  doubt  would  soon  happen. 
Instead  of  that,  he  goes  and  offers  himself  to  my  civil  neighbour,  who, 
without  deigning  to  apply  to  me  even  for  a  character,  entertains  him 
immediately.  In  short,  he  has  not  the  least  of  a  gentleman  about  him, 
and  I  would  give  anything  to  be  well  rid  of  him. 

Bel.  Nothing,  to  be  sure,  can  be  more  unpleasant,  in  the  country,  than 


AVERSION    SUBDUED.  209 

a  bad  neighbour,  and  I  am  concerned  it  is  your  lot  to  have  one.    But  there 
is  a  man  who  seems  as  if  he  wanted  to  speak  with  you. 

[A  Countryman  approaches, 

Arb.  Ah  !  it  is  the  poor  fellow  that  was  burnt  out.  Well,  Richard,  how 
go  you  on  ? — what  has  the  subscription  produced  you? 

Richard.  Thank  your  honour,  my  losses  are  nearly  all  made  up. 

Arb.  I  am  very  glad  of  that ;  but  when  I  saw  the  paper  last,  it  did  not 
reach  half  way. 

Rich.  It  did  not,  sir ;  but  you  may  remember  asking  me  what  Mr. 
Goodwin  had  done  for  me,  and  I  told  you  he  took  time  to  consider  of  it. 
Well,  sir,  I  found  that  the  very  next  day  he  had  been  at  our  town,  and 
had  made  very  particular  inquiry  about  me  and  my  losses,  among  my 
neighbours.  When  I  called  upon  him  in  a  few  days  after,  he  told  me  he 
was  very  glad  to  find  that  I  bore  such  a  good  character,  and  that  the  gen- 
tlemen round  had  so  kindly  taken  up  my  case ;  and  he  would  prevent  the 
necessity  of  my  going  any  farther  for  relief.  Upon  which,  he  gave  me, 
God  bless  him !  a  draft  upon  his  banker  for  fifty  pounds. 

Arb.  Fifty  pounds  ! 

Rich.  Yes,  sir — it  has  made  me  quite  my  own  man  again ;  and  I  am 
now  going  to  purchase  a  new  cart  and  team  of  horses. 

Arb.  A  noble  gift,  indeed ;  I  could  never  have  thought  it !  Well, 
Richard,  I  rejoice  at  your  good  fortune.  I  am  sure  you  are  much  obliged 
to  Mr.  Goodwin 

Rich.  Indeed,  I  am,  sir,  and  to  all  my  good  friends.     God  bless  you  ! 

[Goes  on. 

Bel.  Niggardliness,  at  least,  is  not  this  man's  foible. 

Arb.  No — 1  was  mistaken  in  that  point.  I  wronged  him,  and  I  am 
sorry  for  it.  But  what  a  pity  it  is  that  men  of  real  generosity  should  not 
be  amiable  in  their  manners,  and  as  ready  to  oblige  in  trifles  as  in  matters 
of  consequence. 

Bel.  True — 't  is  a  pity  when  that  is  really  the  case. 

Arb.  How  much  less  an  exertion  it  would  have  been  to  have  shown 
some  civility  about  a  horse  or  a  flower-root ! 

Bel.  Apropos  of  flowers ! — there 's  your  gardener  carrying  a  large  one 
in  a  pot. 

Enter  Gardener. 

Arb.  Now,  James,  what  have  you  got  there  1 

Gardener.  A  flower,  sir,  for  madam,  from  Mr.  Goodwin's. 


10  SEVENTEENTH    EVENING. 

Arb.  How  did  you  come  by  it  ? 

Gard.  His  gardener,  sir,  sent  me  word  to  come  for  it.  We  should 
have  had  it  before,  but  Mr.  Goodwin  thought  it  would  not  move  safely. 

Arb.  I  hope  he  has  got  more  of  them  ? 

Gard.  He  has  only  a  seedling  plant  or  two,  sir;  but  hearing  that 
madam  took  a  liking  to  it,  he  resolved  to  send  it  her,  and  a  choice  thing 
it  is  !    I  have  a  note  for  madam  in  my  pocket. 

Arb.  Well,  go  on.  [Exit  Gardener. 

Bel.  Methinks  this  does  not  look  like  deficiency  in  civility  ? 

Arb.  No — it  is  a  very  polite  action — I  ca'n't  deny  it,  and  I  am  obliged 
to  him  for  it.     Perhaps,  indeed,  he  may  feel  he  owes  me  a  little  amends. 

Bel.  Possibly — it  shows  he  can  feel,  however. 

Arb.  It  does.  Ha !  there  's  Yorkshire  Tom  coming  with  a  string  of 
horses  from  the  fair.  I'll  step  up  and  speak  to  him.  Now,  Tom  !  how 
have  horses  gone  at  Market-hill  ? 

Tom.  Dear  enough,  your  honour ! 

Arb.  How  much  more  did  you  get  for  Mr.  Goodwin's  mare  than  I 
offered  him  1 

Tom.  Ah!  sir,  that  was  not  a  thing  for  your  riding,  and  that  Mr 
Goodwin  well  knew.  You  never  saw  such  a  vicious  toad.  She  had 
liked  to  have  killed  the  groom  two  or  three  times.  So  I  was  ordered  to 
offer  her  to  the  mail-coach  people,  and  get  what  I  could  from  them.  I 
might  have  sold  her  better  if  Mr.  Goodwin  would  have  let  me,  for  she 
was  a  fine  creature  to  look  at  as  need  be,  and  quite  sound. 

Arb.  And  was  that  the  true  reason  why  the  mare  was  not  sold  to  me  ? 

Tom.  It  was,  indeed,  sir. 

Arb.  Then  I  am  highly  obliged  to  Mr.  Goodwin.  ( Tom  rides  on.) 
This  was  handsome  behaviour,  indeed  ! 

Bel.  Yes,  I  think  it  was  somewhat  more  than  politeness — it  was  real 
goodness  of  heart. 

Arb.  It  was.  I  find  I  must  alter  my  opinion  of  him,  and  I  do  it  with 
pleasure.  But,  after  all,  his  conduct  with  respect  to  my  servant  is  some- 
what unaccountable. 

Bel.  I  see  reason  to  think  so  well  of  him  in  the  mam,  that  I  am  inclined 
to  hope  he  will  be  acquitted  in  this  matter,  too. 

Arb.  There  the  fellow  is.    I  wonder  he  has  my  old  livery  on  yet ! 

[Ned  approaches ,  pulling  off  his  hat 

Ned.  Sir,  I  was  coming  to  your  honour. 


AVERSION    SUBDUED.  211 

Arb.  What  can  you  have  to  say  to  me  now,  Ned  ? 

Ned.  To  ask  pardon  for  my  misbehaviour,  and  to  beg  you  to  take  me  again. 

Arb.  What — have  you  so  soon  parted  with  your  new  master? 

Ned.  Mr.  Goodwin  never  was  my  master,  sir.  He  only  kept  me  in  his 
house  till  I  could  make  it  up  with  you  again ;  for  he  said  he  was  sure  you 
were  too  honourable  a  gentleman  to  turn  off  an  old  servant  without  good 
reason,  and  he  hoped  you  would  admit  my  excuses  after  your  anger  was  over. 

Arb.  Did  he  say  all  that? 

Ned.  Yes,  sir ;  and  he  advised  me  not  to  delay  any  longer  to  ask  your 
pardon. 

Arb.  Well — go  to  my  house,  and  I  will  talk  with  you  on  my  return. 

Bel.  Now,  my  friend,  what  think  you  of  this? 

Arb.  I  think  more  than  I  can  well  express.  It  will  be  a  lesson  to  me 
never  to  make  hasty  judgments  again. 

Bel.  Why,  indeed,  to  have  concluded  that  such  a  man  had  nothing  of 
the  gentleman  about  him  must  have  been  rather  hasty. 

Arb.  I  acknowledge  it.  But  it  is  the  misfortune  of  these  reserved 
characters  that  they  are  so  long  in  making  themselves  known  ;  though, 
when  they  are  known,  they  often  prove  the  most  truly  estimable.  I  am 
afraid,  even  now,  that  I  must  be  content  with  esteeming  him  at  a  distance. 

Bel.  Why  so? 

Arb.  You  know  I  am  of  an  open  sociable  disposition. 

Bel.  Perhaps  he  is  so,  too. 

Arb.  If  he  was,  surely  we  should  have  been  better  acquainted  before 
this  time. 

Bel.  It  may  have  been  prejudice  rather  than  temper  that  has  kept  you  apart. 

Arb.  Possibly  so.  The  vile  spirit  of  party  has  such  a  sway  in  the 
country,  that  men  of  the  most  liberal  dispositions  can  hardly  free  them- 
selves from  its  influence.  It  poisons  all  the  kindness  of  society :  and  yonder 
comes  an  instance  of  its  pernicious  effects. 

Bel.  Who  is  he  ? 

Arb.  A  poor  schoolmaster  with  a  large  family  in  the  next  market-town, 
who  has  lost  all  his  scholars  by  his  activity  on  our  side  in  the  last  election. 
I  heartily  wish  it  was  in  my  power  to  do  something  for  him ;  for  he  is  a 
very  honest  man,  though,  perhaps,  rather  too  warm.  \The  schoolmaster 
comes  up.']    Now,  Mr.  Penman,  how  do  things  go  with  you? 

Pen.  I  thank  you,  sir,  they  have  gone  poorly  enough,  but  I  hope  they 
are  in  a  way  to  mend. 


212  SEVENTEENTH    EVENING. 

Arb.  I  am  glad  to  hear  it — but  how? 

Pen.  Why,  sir,  the  free-school  of  Stoke  is  vacant,  and  I  believe  I  am 
likely  to  get  it. 

Arb.  Ay ! — I  wonder  at  that.  I  thought  it  was  in  the  hands  of  the 
other  party  ? 

Pen.  It  is,  sir ;  but  Mr.  Goodwin  has  been  so  kind  as  to  give  me  a 
recommendation,  and  his  interest  is  sufficient  to  carry  it. 

Arb.  Mr.  Goodwin !  you  surprise  me  ! 

Pen.  I  was  much  surprised,  too,  sir.  He  sent  for  me  of  his  own  accord, 
(for  I  should  never  have  thought  of  asking  him  a  favour,)  and  told  me  he 
was  sorry  a  man  should  be  injured  in  his  profession  on  account  of  party, 
and  as  I  could  not  live  comfortably  where  I  was,  he  would  try  to  settle  me 
in  a  better  place.  So  he  mentioned  the  vacancy  of  Stoke,  and  offered  me 
letters  for  the  trustees.  I  was  never  so  affected  in  my  life,  sir ;  I  could 
hardly  speak  to  return  him  thanks.  He  kept  me  to  dinner,  and  treated 
me  with  the  greatest  respect.  Indeed,  I  believe  there  is  not  a  kinder  man 
breathing  than  Mr.  Goodwin. 

Arb.  You  have  the  best  reason  in  the  world  to  say  so,  Mr.  Penman. 
What — did  he  converse  familiarly  with  you? 

Pen.  Quite  so,  sir.  We  talked  a  great  deal  about  party  affairs  in  this 
neighbourhood,  and  he  lamented  much  that  differences  of  this  kind  should 
keep  worthy  men  at  a  distance  from  each  other.  I  took  the  liberty,  sir, 
of  mentioning  your  name.  He  said  he  had  not  the  honour  of  being 
acquainted  with  you,  but  he  had  a  sincere  esteem  for  your  character,  and 
should  be  glad  of  any  occasion  to  cultivate  a  friendship  with  you.  For 
my  part,  I  confess,  to  my  shame  I  did  not  think  there  could  have  been 
such  a  man  on  that  side. 

Arb.  Well — good  morning ! 

Pen.  Your  most  obedient,  sir.  [He  goes. 

Arb.  (After  some  silence).  Come,  my  friend,  let  us  go. 

Bel.  Whither? 

Arb.  Can  you  doubt  it  ? — to  Mr.  Goodwin's,  to  be  sure !  After  all  I 
have  heard,  can  I  exist  a  moment  without  acknowledging  the  injustice  I 
have  done  him)  and  begging  his  friendship? 

Bel.  I  shall  be  happy,  I  am  sure,  to  accompany  you  on  that  errand. 
But  who  is  to  introduce  us  ? 

Arb.  O,  what  are  form  and  ceremony  in  a  case  like  this !  Come — come. 

Bel.  Most  willingly,  [Exeunt 


X 


EVENING  XVIII. 


THE  LITTLE  PHILOSOPHER. 

Mr.  L.  was  one  morning  riding  by  himself,  when  dismounting  to  gather 

a  plant  in  the  hedge,  his  horse  got  loose  and  galloped  away  before  him. 

He  followed,  calling  the  horse  by  his  name,  which  stopped,  but  on  his 

approach  set  off  again.     At  length,  a  little  boy  in  a  neighbouring  field, 

seeing  the  affair,  ran  across  where  the  road  made  a  turn,  and  getting 

before  the  horse,  took  him  by  the  bridle,  and   held  him  till  his   owner 

came  up.    Mr.  L.  looked  at  the  boy,  and  admired  his  ruddy,  cheerful 

countenance. 

213 


X 


214  EIGHTEENTH    EVENING. 

"  Thank  you,  my  good  lad  !"  said  he  ;  "  you  have  caught  my  horse  very 
cleverly.  What  shall  I  give  you  for  your  trouble  ?"  putting  his  hand  in 
his  pocket. 

Boy.  I  want  nothing,  sir. 

Mr.  L.  Do  n't  you  ?  so  much  the  better  for  you.  Few  men  can  say  as 
much.     But  pray,  what  are  you  doing  in  the  field  ? 

Boy.  I  was  rooting  up  weeds  and  tending  the  sheep  that  are  feeding  on 
the  turnips. 

Mr.  L.  And  do  you  like  this  employment  ? 

Boy.  Yes,  very  well,  this  fine  weather. 

Mr.  L.  But  had  you  not  rather  play  ? 

Boy.  This  is  not  hard  work  ;  it  is  almost  as  good  as  play. 

Mr.  L.  Who  set  you  to  work  ? 

Boy.  My  daddy,  sir. 

Mr.  L.  Where  does  he  live  ? 

Boy.  Just  by,  among  the  trees  there. 

Mr.  L.  What  is  his  name  ? 

Boy.  Thomas  Hurdle. 

Mr.  L.  And  what  is  yours  ? 

Boy.  Peter,  sir. 

Mr.  L.  How  old  are  you  1 

Boy.  I  shall  be  eight  at  Michaelmas. 

Mr.  L.  How  long  have  you  been  out  in  this  field  ? 

Boy.  Ever  since  six  in  the  morning. 

Mr.  L.  And  are  not  you  hungry  1 

Boy.  Yes — I  shall  go  to  dinner  soon. 

Mr.  L.  If  you  had  sixpence  now,  what  would  you  do  with  it  ? 

Boy.  I  do  n't  know.    I  never  had  so  much  in  my  life. 

Mr.  L.  Have  you  no  playthings  ? 

Boy.  Playthings  !  what  are  those  ? 

Mr.  h.  Such  as  balls,  nine-pins,  marbles,  tops,  and  wooden  horses. 

Boy.  No,  sir ;  but  our  Tom  makes  footballs  to  kick  in  the  cold  weather, 
and  we  set  traps  for  birds ;  and  then  I  have  a  jumping-pole  and  a  pair  of 
stilts  to  walk  through  the  dirt  with  ;  and  I  had  a  hoop,  but  it  is  broke. 

Mr.  L.  And  do  you  want  nothing  else  ? 

Boy.  No.  I  have  hardly  time  for  those  :  for  I  always  ride  the  horses 
to  field,  and  bring  up  the  cows,  and  run  to  the  town  of  errands,  and  that 
is  as  good  as  play,  you  know. 


THE    LITTLE    PHILOSOPHER.  215 

Mr.  L.  Well,  but  you  could  buy  apples  or  gingerbread  at  the  town,  I 
suppose,  if  you  had  money  ? 

Boy.  Oh — I  can  get  apples  at  home  ;  and  as  for  gingerbread  I  do  n't  mind 
it  much,  for  my  mammy  gives  me  a  pie  now  and  then,  and  that  is  as  good. 

Mr.  L.  Would  you  not  like  a  knife  to  cut  sticks  ? 

Boy.  I  have  one — here  it  is — brother  Tom  gave  it  me. 

Mr.  L.  Your  shoes  are  full  of  holes — don't  you  want  a  better  pair  1 

Boy.  I  have  a  better  pair  for  Sundays. 

Mr.  L.  But  these  let  in  water. 

Boy.  Oh,  I  don't  care  for  that. 

Mr.  L.  Your  hat  is  all  torn,  too. 

Boy.  I  have  a  better  at  home,  but  I  had  as  leave  have  none  at  all,  for  it 
hurts  my  head. 

Mr.  L.  What  do  you  do  when  it  rains  ? 

Boy.  If  it  rains  very  hard,  I  get  under  the  hedges  till  it  is  over. 

Mr.  L.  What  do  you  do  when  you  are  hungry  before  it  is  time  to  go  home? 

Boy.  I  sometimes  eat  a  raw  turnip. 

Mr.  L.  But  if  there  are  none  ? 

Boy.  Then  I  do  as  well  as  I  can;  I  work  on,  and  never  think  of  it. 

Mr.  L.  Are  you  not  dry  sometimes  this  hot  weather  ? 

Boy.  Yes,  but  there  is  water  enough. 

Mr.  L.  Why,  my  little  fellow,  you  are  quite  a  philosopher  ! 

Boy.  Sir? 

Mr.  L.  I  say  you  are  a  philosopher,  but  I  am  sure  you  do  not  know 
what  that  means. 

Boy.  No,  sir,  no  harm,  I  hope. 

Mr.  L.  No,  no !  (laughing.)  Well,  my  boy,  you  seem  to  want 
nothing  at  all,  so  I  shall  not  give  you  money  to  make  you  want  anything. 
But  were  you  ever  at  school  ? 

Boy.  No,  sir,  but  daddy  says  I  shall  go  after  harvest. 

Mr.  L.  You  will  want  books  then. 

Boy.  Yes,  the  boys  have  all  a  spelling-book  and  a  testament. 

Mr.  L.  Well,  then,  I  will  give  you  them— tell  your  daddy  so,  and  that 
it  is  because  I  think  you  a  very  good  contented  little  boy.  So  now  go  to 
your  sheep  again. 

Boy.  I  will,  sir.     Thank  you. 

Mr.  L.  Good-by,  Peter. 

Boy.  Good-by,  sir. 


216  EIGHTEENTH    EVENING. 


WHAT  ANIMALS  ARE  MADE  FOR. 

1  Pray,  papa,"  said  Sophia  after  she  had  been  a  long  time  teased  with 
the  flies  that  buzzed  about  her  ears,  and  settled  on  her  nose  and  forehead 
as  she  sat  at  work — "Pray,  what  were  flies  made  for?" 

"  For  some  good,  I  dare  say,"  replied  her  papa. 

Sop.  But  I  think  they  do  a  great  deal  more  harm  than  good,  for  I  am 
sure  they  plague  me  sadly :  and  in  the  kitchen  they  are  so  troublesome, 
that  the  maids  can  hardly  do  their  work  for  them. 

Pa.  Flies  eat  up  many  things  that  would  otherwise  corrupt  and  become 
loathsome ;  and  they  serve  for  food  to  birds,  spiders,  and  many  other  animals. 

Sop.  But  we  could  clean  away  everything  that  was  offensive  without 
their  help ;  and  as  to  their  serving  for  food,  I  have  seen  whole  heaps  of 
them  lying  dead  in  a  window,  without  seeming  to  have  done  good  to 
anything. 

Pa.  Well,  then.  Suppose  a  fly  capable  of  thinking  ;  would  he  not  be 
equally  puzzled  to  find  out  what  men  were  good  for  ?  "  This  great  two- 
legged  monster,"  he  might  say,  "  instead  of  helping  us  to  live,  devours  more 
food  at  a  meal  than  would  serve  a  whole  legion  of  flies.  Then  he  kills 
us  by  hundreds  when  we  come  within  his  reach,  and  I  see  him  destroy 
and  torment  all  other  animals  too.  And  when  he  dies  he  is  nailed  up  in 
a  box,  and  put  a  great  way  under  ground,  as  if  he  grudged  doing  and 
more  good  after  his  death  than  when  alive."  Now  what  would  you 
answer  to  such  a  reasoning  fly  ? 

Sop.  I  would  tell  him  he  was  very  impertinent  for  talking  so  of  his 
betters  ;  for  that  he  and  all  other  creatures  were  made  for  the  use  of  man, 
and  not  man  for  theirs. 

Pa.  But  would  you  tell  him  true  ?  You  have  just  been  saying  that 
you  could  not  find  out  of  what  use  flies  were  to  us :  whereas,  when  they 
suck  our  blood,  there  is  no  doubt  that  we  are  of  use  to  them. 

Sop.  It  is  that  which  puzzles  me. 

Pa.  There  are  many  other  animals  which  we  call  noxious,  and  which 
are  so  far  from  being  useful  to  us,  that  we  take  all  possible  pains  to  get 
rid  of  them.  More  than  that,  there  are  vast  tracks  of  the  earth  where  few 
or  no  men  inhabit,  which  are  yet  full  of  beasts,  birds,  insects,  and  all 
living  things.  These  certainly  do  not  exist  there  for  his  use  alone.  On 
the  contrary,  they  often  keep  man  away. 


WHAT  ANIMALS  ARE  MADE  FOR.  217 

Sop.  Then  what  are  they  made  for  ? 

Pa.  They  are  made  to  be  happy.  It  is  a  manifest  purpose  of  the 
Creator  to  give  being  to  as  much  life  as  possible,  for  life  is  enjoyment  to 
all  creatures  in  health  and  in  possession  of  their  faculties.  Man  surpasses 
other  animals  in  his  powers  of  enjoyment,  and  he  has  prospects  in  a 
future  state  which  they  do  not  share  with  him.  But  the  Creator  equally 
desires  the  happiness  of  all  his  creatures,  and  looks  down  with  as  much 
benignity  upon  these  flies  that  are  sporting  around  us,  as  upon  ourselves. 

Sop.  Then  we  ought  not  to  kill  them,  if  they  are  ever  so  troublesome. 

Pa.  I  do  not  say  that.  We  have  a  right  to  make  a  reasonable  use  of 
all  animals  for  our  advantage,  and  also  to  free  ourselves  from  such  as  are 
hurtful  to  us.  So  far  our  superiority  over  them  may  fairly  extend.  But 
we  should  never  abuse  them  for  our  mere  amusement,  nor  take  away  their 
lives  wantonly.  Nay,  a  good  natured-man  will  rather  undergo  a  little 
inconvenience,  than  take  away  from  a  creature  all  that  it  possesses.  An 
infant  may  destroy  life,  but  all  the  kings  upon  earth  cannot  restore  it.  I 
remember  reading  of  a  good-tempered  old  gentleman  that  having  been  a 
long  time  plagued  with  a  great  fly  that  buzzed  about  his  face  all  dinner- 
time, at  length,  after  many  efforts,  caught  it.  Instead  of  crushing  it  to 
death,  he  held  it  carefully  in  his  hand,  and  opening  the  window,  "  Go," 
said  he, — "get  thee  gone,  poor  creature,  I  won't  hurt  a  hair  of  thy  head; 
surely  the  world  is  wide  enough  for  thee  and  me." 

Sop.  I  should  have  loved  that  man. 

Pa.  One  of  our  poets,  has  written  some  very  pretty  lines  to  a  fly  that 
came  to  partake  with  him  of  his  wine.     They  begin  : — 

"  Busy,  curious,  thirsty  fly, 
Drink  with  me,  and  drink  as  I ; 
Welcome  freely  to  my  cup, 
Couldst  thou  sip  and  sip  it  up." 

Sop.  How  pretty  !  I  think  they  will  almost  make  me  love  flies.  But 
pray,  papa,  do  not  animals  destroy  one  another  ? 

Pa.  They  do,  indeed.  The  greatest  part  of  them  only  live  by  the 
destruction  of  life.  There  is  a  perpetual  warfare  going  on,  in  which  the 
stronger  prey  upon  the  weaker,  and,  in  their  turns,  are  the  prey  of  those 
which  are  a  degree  stronger  than  themselves.  Even  the  innocent  sheep, 
with  every  mouthful  of  grass,  destroys  hundreds  of  small  insects.  In  the 
air  we  breathe,  and  the  water  we  drink,  we  give  death  to  thousands  of 
invisible  creatures. 

10 


»8  EIGHTEENTH    EVENING. 

£op.  But  is  not  that  very  strange  ?  If  they  were  created  to  live  and  be 
happy,  why  should  they  be  destroyed  so  fast  ? 

Pa.  They  are  destroyed  no  faster  than  others  are  produced  ;  and  if  they 
enjoyed  life  while  it  lasted,  they  have  had  a  good  bargain.  By  making 
animals  the  food  of  animals,  Providence  has  filled  up  every  chink,  as  it 
were,  of  existence.  You  see  these  swarms  of  flies.  During  all  the  hot 
weather  they  are  continually  coming  forth  from  the  state  of  eggs  and 
maggots,  and  as  soon  as  they  get  the  use  of  wings,  they  roam  about  and 
fill  every  place  in  search  of  food.  Meantime,  they  are  giving  sustenance 
to  the  whole  race  of  spiders ;  they  maintain  all  the  swallow  tribe,  and 
contribute  greatly  to  the  support  of  many  other  small  birds,  and  even 
afford  many  a  delicate  morsel  to  the  fishes.  Their  own  numbers,  however, 
seem  scarcely  diminished,  and  vast  multitudes  live  on  till  the  cold 
weather  comes  and  puts  an  end  to  them.  Were  nothing  to  touch  them, 
they  would  probably  become  so  numerous  as  to  starve  each  other.  As  it 
is,  they  are  full  of  enjoyment  themselves,  and  afford  life  and  enjoyment 
to  other  creatures,  which  in  their  turn  supply  the  wants  of  others. 

Sop.  It  is  no  charity,  then,  to  tear  a  spider's  web  in  pieces  in  order  to 
set  the  fly  at  liberty. 

Pa.  None  at  all — no  more  than  it  would  be  to  demolish  the  traps  of  a 
poor  Indian  hunter  who  depended  upon  them  for  his  dinner.  They  both 
act  as  nature  directs  them.     Shall  I  tell  you  a  story  %* 

Sop.  O  yes — pray  do ! 

Pa.  As  a  venerable  Bramin,  who  had  never  in  his  days  eaten  anything 
but  rice,  fruits,  and  milk,  and  held  it  the  greatest  of  crimes  to  shed  the 
blood  of  anything  that  had  life,  was  one  day  meditating  on  the  banks  of 
the  Ganges,  he  saw  a  little  bird  on  the  ground  picking  up  ants  as  fast  as 
he  could  swallow.  "  Murderous  wretch,"  cried  he,  "  what  scores  of  lives 
are  sacrificed  to  one  gluttonous  meal  of  thine !"  Presently,  a  sparrow- 
hawk,  pouncing  down,  seized  him  in  his  claws  and  flew  off  with  him. 
The  Bramin  was  at  first  inclined  to  triumph  over  the  little  bird;  but  on 
hearing  his  cries,  he  could  not  help  pitying  him.  "  Poor  thing,"  said  he, 
"  thou  art  fallen  into  the  clutches  of  a  tyrant  I"  A  stronger  tyrant,  how- 
ever, took  up  the  matter  ;  for  a  falcon  in  mid  air  darting  on  the  sparrow- 
hawk,  struck  him  to  the  ground,  with  the  bird  lifeless  in  his  talons.  Tyrant 
against  tyrant,  thought  the  Bramin,  is  well  enough.  The  falcon  had  not 
finished  tearing  his  prey,  when  a  lynx  stealing  from  behind  a  rock  on 
which  he  was  perched,  sprung  upon  him,  and  having  strangled  him,  bore 


TRUE    HEROISM.  219 

him  to  the  edge  of  a  neighbouring  thicket,  and  began  to  suck  his  blood. 
The  Bramin  was  attentively  viewing  this  new  display  of  retributive 
justice,  when  a  sudden  roar  shook  the  air,  and  a  huge  tiger  rushing  from 
the  thicket,  came  like  thunder  on  the  lynx.  The  Bramin  was  near  enough 
to  hear  the  crushing  bones,  and  was  making  off  in  great  terror,  when  he 
met  an  English  soldier  armed  with  his  musket.  He  pointed  eagerly  to 
the  place  where  the  tiger  was  making  his  bloody  repast.  The  soldier 
levelled  his  gun,  and  laid  the  tiger  dead.  "  Brave  fellow!"  exclaimed  the 
Bramin.  "I  am  very  hungry,"  said  the  soldier,  "  can  you  give  me  a  beef- 
steak? I  see  you  have  plenty  of  cows  here." — "Horrible!"  cried  the 
Bramin;  "what!  I  kill  the  sacred  cows  of  Brama !"— "  Then  kill  the 
next  tiger  yourself, '  said  the  soldier. 

TRUE   HEROISM. 

You  have  read,  my  Edmund,  the  stories  of  Achilles,  and  Alexander, 
and  Charles  of  Sweden,  and  have,  I  doubt  not,  admired  the  high  courage 
which  seemed  to  set  them  above  all  sensations  of  fear,  and  rendered  them 
capable  of  the  most  extraordinary  actions.  The  world  called  these  men 
heroes ;  but  before  we  give  them  that  noble  appellation,  let  us  consider 
what  were  the  motives  which  animated  them  to  act  and  suffer  as  they  did. 

The  first  was  a  ferocious  savage,  governed  by  the  passions  of  anger  and 
revenge,  in  gratifying  which  he  disregarded  all  impulses  of  duty  and 
humanity.  The  second  was  intoxicated  with  the  love  of  glory — swollen 
with  absurd  pride — and  enslaved  by  dissolute  pleasures ;  and  in  pursuit 
of  these  objects  he  reckoned  the  blood  of  millions  as  of  no  account.  The 
third  was  unfeeling,  obstinate,  and  tyrannical,  and  preferred  ruining  his 
country,  and  sacrificing  all  his  faithful  followers,  to  the  humiliation  of 
giving  up  any  of  his  mad  projects.  Self,  you  see,  was  the  spring  of  all 
their  conduct ;  and  a  selfish  man  can  never  be  a  hero.  I  will  give  you 
two  examples  of  genuine  heroism,  one  shown  in  acting,  the  other  in 
suffering ;  and  these  shall  be  true  stories,  which  is  perhaps  more  than 
can  be  said  of  half  that  is  recorded  of  Achilles  and  Alexander. 

You  have  probably  heard  something  of  Mr.  Howard,  the  reformer  of 
prisons,  to  whom  a  monument  is  erected  in  St.  Paul's  church.  His  whole 
life  almost  was  heroism;  for  he  confronted  all  sorts  of  dangers  with  the 
sole  view  of  relieving  the  miseries  of  his  fellow-creatures.  When  he 
began  to  examine  the  state  of  prisons,  scarcely  any  in  the  country  were 


220  EIGHTEENTH    EVENING. 

free  from  a  very  fatal  and  infectious  distemper  called  the  jail  fever. 
Wherever  he  heard  of  it,  he  made  a  point  of  seeing  the  poor  sufferers,  and 
often  went  down  into  their  dungeons,  when  the  keepers  themselves  would 
not  accompany  him.  He  travelled  several  times  over  almost  the  whole 
of  Europe,  and  even  into  Asia,  in  order  to  gain  knowledge  of  the  state  of 
prisons  and  hospitals,  and  point  out  means  for  lessening  the  calamities 
that  prevail  in  them.  He  even  went  into  countries  where  the  plague  was, 
that  he  might  learn  the  best  methods  of  treating  that  terrible  contagious 
disease ;  and  he  voluntarily  exposed  himself  to  perform  a  strict  quarantine, 
as  one  suspected  of  having  the  infection  of  the  plague,  only  that  he  might 
be  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the  methods  used  for  prevention.  He  at 
length  died  of  a  fever  caught  in  attending  on  the  sick  on  the  borders  of 
Crim  Tartary,  honoured  and  admired  by  all  Europe,  after  having  greatly 
contributed  to  enlighten  his  own  and  many  other  countries  with  respect  to 
some  of  the  most  important  objects  of  humanity.  Such  was  Howard  the 
good  ;  as  great  a  hero  in  preserving  mankind,  as  some  of  the  false  heroes 
above  mentioned  were  in  destroying  them. 

My  second  hero  is  a  much  humbler,  but  not  less  genuine  one. 
There  was  a  journeyman  bricklayer  in  this  town — an  able  workman, 
but  a  very  drunken  idle  fellow,  who  spent  at  the  alehouse  almost  all  he 
earned,  and  left  his  wife  and  children  to  shift  for  themselves  as  they 
could.  This  is,  unfortunately,  a  common  case  ;  and  of  all  the  tyranny 
and  cruelty  exercised  in  the  world,  I  believe  that  of  bad  husbands  and 
fathers  is  by  much  the  most  frequent  and  the  worst. 

The  family  might  have  starved,  but  for  his  eldest  son,  whom  from  a 
child  the  father  brought  up  to  help  him.  in  his  work;  and  who  was  so 
industrious  and  attentive,  that  being  now  at  the  age  of  thirteen  or  fourteen, 
he  was  able  to  earn  pretty  good  wages,  every  farthing  of  which,  that  he 
could  keep  out  of  his  father's  hands,  he  brought  to  his  mother.  And  when 
his  brute  of  a  father  came  home  drunk,  cursing  and  swearing,  and  in  such 
an  ill  humour,  that  his  mother  and  the  rest  of  the  children  durst  not  come 
near  him  for  fear  of  a  beating,  this  good  lad  (Tom  was  his  name)  kept 
near  him,  to  pacify  him,  and  get  him  quietly  to  bed.  His  mother,  there- 
fore, justly  looked  upon  Tom  as  the  support  of  the  family,  and  loved  him 
dearly. 

It  chanced  that  one  day  Tom,  in  climbing  up  a  high  ladder  with  a  loau 
of  mortar  on  his  head,  missed  his  hold,  and  fell  down  to  the  bottom  on  a 
heap  of  bricks  and  rubbish.     The  bystanders  ran  up  to  him,  and  found 


TRUE    HEROISM.  221 

him  all  bloody5  and  with  his  thigh  broken  and  bent  quite  under  him. 
They  raised  him  up,  and  sprinkled  water  on  his  face  to  recover  him  from 
a  swoon  into  which  he  had  fallen.  As  soon  as  he  could  speak,  looking 
round,  with  a  lamentable  tone  he  cried,  "  O,  what  will  become  of  my  poor 
mother !" 

He  was  carried  home,  I  was  present  while  the  surgeon  set  his  thigh. 
His  mother  was  hanging  over  him  half  distracted  :  "  Do  n't  cry,  mother !" 
said  he,  "I  shall  get  well  again  in  time."  Not  a  word  more  or  a  groan 
escaped  him  while  the  operation  lasted. 

Tom  was  a  ragged  boy  that  could  not  read  or  write — yet  Tom  has 
always  stood  on  my  list  of  heroes  ' 


The  Female  Choice,  p.  232. 

EVENING  XIX. 


ON  METALS. 

PART    1. 

George  and  Harry,  with  their  tutor,  one  day  in  their  walk,  were  driven 
by  the  rain  to  take  shelter  in  a  blacksmith's  shop;  and  the  shower  lasting 
some  time,  the  boys,  in  order  to  amuse  themselves,  began  to  examine  the 
things  around  them.  The  great  bellows  first  attracted  their  notice,  and 
they  admired  the  roaring  it  made,  and  the  expedition  with  which  it  raised 
the  fire  to  a  heat  too  intense  for  them  to  look  at.  They  were  surprised  at 
the  dexterity  with  which  the  smith  fashioned  a  bar  of  iron  into  a  horseshoe ; 

222 


ON    METALS.  223 

first  beating  it,  then  hammering  it  well  on  the  anvil,  cutting  off  a  proper 
length,  bending  it  round,  turning  up  the  ends,  and  lastly,  punching  the 
nail-holes.  They  watched  the  whole  process  of  fitting  it  to  the  horse's 
foot,  and  fastening  it  on ;  and  it  had  become  fair  some  minutes  before 
they  showed  a  desire  to  leave  the  shop  and  proceed  on  their  walk. 

"  I  should  never  have  thought,"  says  George,  beginning  the  conversation, 
"  that  such  a  hard  thing  as  iron  could  have  been  so  easily  managed." 

"  Nor  I  neither,"  said  Harry. 

Tut.  It  was  managed,  you  saw,  by  the  help  of  fire.  The  fire  made  it 
soft  and  flexible,  so  that  the  smith  could  easily  hammer  it,  and  cut  it,  and 
bend  it  to  the  shape  he  wanted ;  and  then  dipping  it  in  the  water  made  it 
hard  again. 

Geo.  Are  all  other  metals  managed  in  the  same  manner? 

Tut.  They  are  all  worked  by  the  help  of  fire  in  some  way  or  other, 
either  in  melting  them,  or  making  them  soft. 

Geo.  There  are  a  good  many  sorts  of  metals,  are  there  not? 

Tut.  Yes,  several ;  and  if  you  have  a  mind  I  will  tell  you  about  them, 
and  their  uses. 

Geo.  Pray  do,  sir. 

Har.  Yes ;  I  should  like  to  hear  it  of  all  things. 

Tut.  Well,  then.  First,  let  us  consider  what  a  metal  is.  Do  you  think 
you  should  know  one  from  a  stone  ? 

Geo.  A  stone ! — Yes,  I  could  not  mistake  a  piece  of  lead  or  iron  for  a 
stone. 

Tut.  How  would  you  distinguish  it? 

Geo.  A  metal  is  bright  and  shining. 

Tut.  True — brilliance  is  one  of  their  qualities.  But  glass  and  crystal 
are  very  bright,  too. 

Har.  But  one  may  see  through  glass,  and  not  through  a  piece  of  metal. 

Tut.  Right.  Metals  are  brilliant,  but  opaque,  or  not  transparent.  The 
thinnest  plate  of  metal  that  can  be  made  will  keep  out  the  light  as 
effectually  as  a  stone-wall. 

Geo.  Metals  are  very  heavy,  too. 

Tut.  True.  They  are  the  heaviest  bodies  in  nature  ;  for  the  lightest 
metal  is.nearly  twice  as  heavy  as  the  heaviest  stone.     Well,  what  else? 

Geo.  Why,  they  will  bear  beating  with  a  hammer,  which  a  stone 
would  not,  without  flying  in  pieces. 

Tut.  Yes :  that  property  of  extending  or  spreading  under  the  hammer, 


224  NINETEENTH    EVENING. 

is  called  malleability  ;  and  another,  like  it,  is  that  of  bearing  to  be  drawn 
out  into  a  wire,  which  is  called  ductility.  Metals  have  both  these,  and 
much  of  their  use  depends  upon  them. 

Geo.  Metals  will  melt,  too. 

Har.  What !  will  iron  melt  ? 

Tut.  Yes ;  all  metals  will  melt,  though  some  require  greater  heat  than 
others.  The  property  of  melting  is  called  fusibility.  Do  you  know 
anything  more  about  them? 

Geo.  No ;  except  that  they  come  out  of  the  ground,  I  believe. 

Tut.  That  is  properly  added,  for  it  is  this  circumstance  which  makes 
them  rank  among  fossils,  or  minerals.  To  sum  up  their  character,  then, 
a  metal  is  a  brilliant,  opaque,  heavy,  malleable,  ductile,  and  fusible  mineral. 

Geo.  I  think  I  can  hardly  remember  all  that. 

Tut.  The  names  may  slip  your  memory,  but  you  cannot  see  metals  at 
all  used,  without  being  sensible  of  the  things. 

Geo.  But  what  are  ores  ?  I  remember  seeing  a  heap  of  iron  ore  which 
men  were  breaking  with  hammers,  and  it  looked  only  like  stones. 

Tut.  The  ore  of  a  metal  is  the  state  in  which  it  is  generally  met  with 
in  the  earth,  when  it  is  so  mixed  with  stony  and  other  matters,  as  not  to 
show  its  proper  qualities  as  a  metal. 

Har.  How  do  people  know  it,  then  ? 

Tut.  By  experience.  It  was  probably  accident  that  in  the  early  ages 
discovered  that  certain  fossils  by  the  force  of  fire  might  be  made  to  yield 
a  metal.  The  experiment  was  repeated  on  other  fossils;  so  that  in 
length  of  time  all  the  different  metals  were  found  out,  and  all  the  different 
forms  in  which  they  lie  concealed  in  the  ground.  The  knowledge  of  this 
is  called  mineralogy,  and  a  very  important  science  it  is. 

Geo.  Yes,  I  suppose  so:  for  metals  are  very  valuable  things.  Our 
next  neighbour,  Mr.  Stirling,  I  have  heard,  gets  a  great  deal  of  money 
every  year,  from  his  mines  in  Wales. 

Tut.  He  does.  The  mineral  riches  of  some  countries  are  much  superior 
to  that  of  their  products  above  ground,  and  the  revenues  of  many  kings 
are  in  great  part  derived  from  their  mines. 

Har.  I  suppose  they  must  be  gold  and  silver  mines  ? 

Tat.  Those,  to  be  sure,  are  the  most  valuable,  if  the  metals  are  found 
m  tolerable  abundance.     But  do  you  know  why  they  are  so? 

Har.  Because  money  is  made  of  gold  and  silver. 

Tut.  That  is  a  principal  reason,  no   doubt.     But  these  metals  have 


ON   METALS.  225 

intrinsic  properties  that  make  them  highly  valuable,  else  probably  they 
would  not  have  been  chosen  in  so  many  countries  to  make  money  of.  In 
the  first  place,  gold  and  silver  are  both  perfect  metals,  that  is,  indestructible 
in  the  fire.  Other  metals,  if  kept  a  considerable  time  in  the  fire,  change 
by  degrees  into  an  earthy,  scaly  matter,  called  an  oxide.  You  have  melted 
lead,  I  dare  say? 

Geo,  Yes,  often. 

Tut.  Have  you  not,  then,  perceived  a  drossy  film  collect  upon  its 
surface,  after  it  had  kept  melting  a  while  ? 

Geo.  Yes. 

Tut.  That  is  an  oxide ;  and  in  time  the  whole  lead  would  change  to 
such  a  substance.  You  may  see,  too,  when  you  have  heated  the  poker 
red-hot,  some  scales  separate  from  it,  which  are  brittle. 

Har.  Yes,  the  kitchen  poker  is  almost  burnt  away  by  putting  into  the  fire. 

Tut.  Well — all  metals  undergo  these  changes,  except  gold  and  silver ; 
but  these,  if  kept  ever  so  long  in  the  hottest  fire,  sustain  no  loss  or  change. 
They  are  therefore  called  perfect  metals.  Gold  has  several  other 
remarkable  properties.     It  is  the  heaviest  of  all  metals. 

Har.  What,  is  it  heavier  than  lead  ? 

Tut.  Yes — about  half  as  heavy  again.  It  is  between  nineteen  and 
twenty  times  as  heavy  as  an  equal  bulk  of  water.  This  great  weight  is  a 
ready  means  of  discovering  counterfeit  gold  coin  from  genuine;  for  as 
gold  must  be  adulterated  with  something  much  lighter  than  itself,  a  false 
coin,  if  of  the  same  weight  with  the  true,  will  be  sensibly  bigger.  Gold> 
too,  is  the  most  ductile  of  all  metals.     You  have  seen  gold-leaf? 

Geo.  Yes ;  I  bought  a  book  of  it  once. 

Tut.  Gold-leaf  is  made  by  beating  a  plate  of  gold  placed  between 
pieces  of  skin,  with  heavy  hammers,  till  it  is  spread  out  to  the  utmost 
degree  of  thinness.  And  so  great  is  its  capacity  for  being  extended,  that 
a  single  grain  of  the  metal,  which  would  be  scarce  bigger  than  a  large 
pin's  head,  is  beaten  out  to  a  surface  of  fifty  square  inches. 

Geo.  That  is  wonderful,  indeed !  But  I  know  gold-leaf  must  be  very 
thin,  for  it  will  almost  float  upon  the  air. 

Tut.  By  drawing  gold  out  to  a  wire,  it  may  be  still  farther  extended. 
Gold  wire,  as  it  is  called,  is  made  with  silver  overlaid  with  a  small 
proportion  of  gold,  and  they  are  drawn  out  together.  In  the  wire  commonly 
used  for  laces,  and  embroidery,  and  the  like,  a  grain  of  gold  is  made 
completely  to  cover  a  length  of  three  hundred  and  fifty-two  feet;  and 

10* 


226  NINETEENTH    EVENING. 

when  it  is  stretched  still  farther  by  flatting,  it  will  reach  four  hundred 
and  one  feet. 

Geo.  Prodigious  !  What  a  vast  way  a  guinea  might  be  drawn  out,  then  ! 

Tut.  Yes,  the  gold  of  a  guinea  at  that  rate  would  reach  above  nine 
miles  and  a  half.  This  property  in  gold  of  being  capable  of  extension  to 
so  extraordinary  a  degree,  is  owing  to  its  great  tenacity  or  cohesion  of 
particles,  which  is  such,  that  you  can  scarcely  break  a  piece  of  gold  wire 
by  twisting  it. 

Har.  Then  it  would  make  very  good  wire  for  hanging  bells. 

Tut.  It  would;  but  such  bell-hanging  would  come  rather  too  dear. 
Another  valuable  quality  of  gold,  is  its  fine  colour.  You  know  scarce 
any'hing  makes  a  more  splendid  appearance  than  gilding.  And  a  peculiar 
advantage  of  it  is,  that  gold  is  not  liable  to  rust  or  tarnish,  as  other  metals 
are.  It  will  keep  its  colour  fresh  for  a  great  many  years,  in  a  pure  and 
clear  air. 

Har.  I  remember  the  vane  of  the  church-steeple  was  new-gilt  two  years 
ago,  and  it  looks  as  well  as  at  first. 

Tut.  This  property  of  not  rusting  would  render  gold  very  useful  for  a 
variety  of  purposes,  if  it  were  more  common.  It  would  make  excellent 
cooking  utensils,  water-pipes,  mathematical  instruments,  clock-work,  and 
the  like. 

Geo.  But  is  not  gold  soft  ?    I  have  seen  pieces  of  gold  bent  double. 

Tut.  Yes;  it  is  next  in  softness  to  lead,  and, therefore,  when  it  is  made 
into  coin,  or  used  for  any  common  purposes,  it  is  mixed  with  a  small 
proportion  of  some  other  metal,  in  order  to  harden  it.  This  is  called  its 
alloy.     Our  gold  coin  has  one  twelfth  of  alloy,  which  is  copper. 

Geo.  How  beautiful  new  gold  coin  is ! 

Tut.  Yes — scarce  any  metal  takes  a  stamp  or  impression  better ;  and 
it  is  capable  of  a  very  fine  polish. 

Geo.  What  countries  yield  the  most  gold  ? 

Tut.  South  America,  the  East  Indies,  and  the  coast  of  Africa.  Europe 
affords  but  little  ;  yet  a  moderate  quantity  is  got  every  year  from  Hungary. 

Geo.  I  have  heard  of  rivers  rolling  sands  of  gold.  Is  there  any  truth 
in  that  ? 

Tut.  The  poets,  as  usual,  have  exaggerated  the  matter :  however,  there 
are  various  streams  in  different  parts  of  the  world,  the  sands  of  which 
contain  particles  of  gold,  and  some  of  them  in  such  quantity  as  to  be  worth 
the  search. 


ON    METALS.  227 

Har.  How  does  the  gold  come  there  ? 

Tut.  It  is  washed  down  along  with  the  soil  from  mountains  by  the 
torrents  which  are  the  sources  of  rivers.  Some  persons  say  that  all  sands 
contain  gold  ;  but  I  would  not  advise  you  to  take  the  pains  to  search  for 
it  in  our  common  sand :  for,  in  more  senses  than  one,  gold  may  be  bought 
too  dear. 

Har.  But  what  a  fine  thing  it  would  be  to  find  a  gold  mine  on  one's 
estate  ! 

Tut.  Perhaps  not  so  fine  as  you  may  imagine,  for  many  a  one  does  not 
pay  the  cost  of  working.  A  coal-pit  would  probably  be  a  better  thing. 
Who  do  you  think  are  the  greatest  gold-finders  in  Europe? 

Har.  I  don't  know. 

Tut.  The  gipsies  in  Hungary.  A  number  of  half-starved,  half-naked 
wretches  of  that  community  employ  themselves  in  washing  and  picking 
the  sands  of  some  mountain-streams  in  that  country  which  contain  gold, 
from  which  they  obtain  just  profit  enough  to  keep  body  and  soul  together: 
whereas,  did  they  employ  themselves  in  agriculture  or  manufactures,  they 
might  have  got  a  comfortable  subsistence.  Gold,  almost  all  the  world 
over,  is  first  got  by  slaves,  and  it  makes  slaves  of  those  who  possess  much 
of  it. 

Geo.  For  my  part,  I  will  be  content  with  a  silver  mine. 

Har.  But  we  have  none  of  those  in  England,  have  we  ? 

Tut.  We  have  no  silver  mines,  properly  so  called,  but  silver  is  procured 
in  some  of  our  lead  mines.  There  are,  however,  valuable  silver  mines  in 
various  parts  of  Europe ;  but  the  richest  of  all  are  in  Peru,  in  South 
America. 

Geo.  Are  not  the  famous  mines  of  Potosi  there  ? 

Tut.  They  are.     Shall  I  now  tell  you  some  of  the  properties  of  silver? 

Geo.  By  all  means. 

Tut.  It  is  another  perfect  metal.  It  is  also  as  little  liable  to  rust  as 
gold,  though  indeed  it  readily  gets  tarnished. 

Har.  Yes ;  1  know  our  footman  is  often  obliged  to  clean  our  plate  before 
it  is  used. 

Tut.  Plate,  however,  is  not  made  of  pure  silver,  any  more  than  silver 
coin,  and  silver  utensils  of  all  kinds.  Copper  is  mixed  with  it,  as  with 
gold,  to  harden  it ;  and  that  makes  it  more  liable  to  tarnish. 

Geo.  Bright  silver,  I  think,  is  almost  as  beautiful  as  gold. 

TuU  It  is  the  most  beautiful  of  the  white  metals,  and  is  capable  of  a 


228  NINETEENTH    EVENING. 

very  fine  polish ;  and  this,  together  with  its  rarity,  makes  it  used  for  a 
great  variety  of  ornamental  purposes.  Then  it  is  nearly  as  ductile  and 
malleable  as  gold. 

Geo.  I  have  had  silver-leaf,  and  it  seemed  as  thin  as  gold-leaf. 

Tut.  It  is  nearly  so.  That  is  used  for  silvering,  as  gold-leaf  is  for 
gilding.  It  is  common,  too,  to  cover  metals  with  a  thin  coating  of  silver 
which  is  called  plating. 

Har.  The  child's  saucepan  is  silvered  over  on  the  inside.  What  is 
that  for  ? 

Tut.  To  prevent  the  victuals  from  getting  any  taint  from  the  metal  of 
the  saucepan ;  for  silver  is  not  capable  of  being  corroded  or  dissolved  by 
any  of  the  liquids  used  for  food,  as  iron  and  copper  are. 

Har.  And  that  is  the  reason  I  suppose  that  fruit-knives  are  made  of 
silver. 

Tut.  It  is ;  but  the  softness  of  the  metal  makes  them  bear  a  very  poor 
edge. 

Geo.  Does  silver  melt  easily  ? 

Tut.  Silver  and  gold  both  melt  more  difficultly  than  lead  ;  not  till  they 
are  above  a  common  red  heat.  As  to  the  weight  of  silver,  it  is  nearly 
one  half  less  than  that  of  gold,  being  only  eleven  times  as  heavy  as  water. 

Har.  Is  quicksilver  a  kind  of  silver  ? 

Tut.  It  takes  its  name  from  silver,  being  very  like  it  in  colour ;  but  in 
reality  it  is  a  very  different  thing,  and  one  of  the  most  singular  of  the 
metal  kind. 

Geo.  It  is  not  malleable^  I  am  sure. 

Tut.  No  3  not  when  it  is  quick  or  fluid,  as  it  always  is  in  our  climate. 
But  a  very  great  degree  of  cold  makes  it  solid,  and  then  it  is  malleable 
like  other  metals. 

Geo.  I  have  heard  of  killing  quicksilver ;  pray,  what  does  that  mean? 

Tut.  It  means  destroying  its  property  of  running  about,  by  mixing  it 
with  something  else.  Thus  if  quicksilver  be  well  rubbed  with  fat,  or  oil, 
or  gum,  it  unites  with  them,  losing  all  its  metallic  appearance  or  fluidity. 
It  also  unites  readily  with  gold  and  silver,  and  several  other  metals,  into 
a  kind  of  shining  paste,  which  is  called  an  amalgam.  This  is  one  of 
the  ways  of  gilding  or  silvering  a  thing.  Your  buttons  are  gilt  by  means 
of  an  amalgam. 

Geo.  How  is  that  done  ? 

Tut.  The  shells  of  the  buttons,  which  are  made  of  copper,  are  shaken 


ON    METALS.  229 

in  a  hat  with  a  lump  of  amalgam  of  gold  and  quicksilver,  till  they  are  all 
covered  over  with  it.  They  are  then  put  into  a  sort  of  frying-pan,  and 
held  over  the  fire.  The  quicksilver,  being  very  volatile  in  its  nature,  flies 
oif  in  the  form  of  a  smoke  or  vapour  when  it  is  heated,  leaving  the  gold 
behind  it  spread  over  the  surface  of  the  button.  Thus  many  dozens  are 
gilt  at  once  with  the  greatest  ease. 

Geo.  What  a  clever  way  !  I  should  like  vastly  to  see  it  done. 

Tut.  You  may  see  it  any  day  at  Birmingham,  if  you  happen  to  be 
there  ;  as  well  as  a  great  many  other  curious  operations  on  metals. 

Geo.  What  a  weight  quicksilver  is !  I  remember  taking  up  a  bottleful 
of  it,  and  I  had  liked  to  have  dropped  it  again,  it  was  so  much  heavier 
than  I  expected. 

Tut.  Yes,  it  is  one  of  the  heaviest  of  the  metals — about  fifteen  times 
as  heavy  as  water. 

Geo.  Is  not  mercury  a  name  for  quicksilver  ?  I  have  heard  them  talk 
of  the  mercury  rising  and  falling  in  the  weather-glass. 

Tut.  It  is.  You,  perhaps,  may  have  heard  too  of  mercurial  medicines, 
which  are  those  made  of  quicksilver  prepared  in  one  manner  or  another. 

Geo.  What  are  they  good  for  ? 

Tut.  For  a  great  variety  of  complaints.  Your  brother  took  some  lately 
for  the  worms ;  and  they  are  often  given  for  breakings-out  on  the  skin, 
and  for  sores  and  swellings.  But  they  have  one  remarkable  effect,  when 
taken  in  a  considerable  quantity,  which  is  to  loosen  the  teeth,  and  cause 
a  great  spitting.     This  is  called  salivation. 

Har.  I  used  to  think  quicksilver  was  poison. 

Tut.  When  it  is  in  its  common  state  of  running  quicksilver  it  generally 
does  neither  good  nor  harm ;  but  it  may  be  prepared,  so  as  to  be  a  very 
violent  medicine,  or  even  a  poison. 

Geo.  Is  it  useful  for  anything  else  ? 

Tut.  Yes — For  a  variety  of  purposes  in  the  arts,  which  I  cannot  now 
very  well  explain  to  you.  But  you  will  perhaps  be  surprised  to  hear  that 
one  of  the  finest  red  paints  is  made  from  quicksilver. 

Geo.  A  red  paint ! — which  is  that  ? 

Tut.  Vermilion,  or  cinnabar,  which  is  a  particular  mixture  of  sulphur 
with  quicksilver. 

Har.  Is  quicksilver  found  in  this  country  ? 

Tut.  No.  The  greatest  quantity  comes  from  Spain,  Istria,  and  South 
America.    It  is  a  considerable  object  of  commerce,  and  bears  a  high  value, 


230  NINETEENTH   EVENING. 

though  much  inferior  to  silver.    Well,  so  much  for  metals  at  present. 
We  will  talk  of  the  rest  on  some  future  opportunity. 


FLYING  AND  SWIMMING. 

"  How  I  wish  I  could  fly  !"  cried  Robert,  as  he  was  gazing  after  his 
pigeons  that  were  exercising  themselves  in  a  morning's  flight.  "  How 
fine  it  must  be  to  soar  to  such  a  height,  and  to  dash  through  the  air  with 
so  swift  a  motion  !" 

"  I  doubt  not,"  said  his  father,  "  that  the  pigeons  have  great  pleasure  in 
it ;  but  we  have  our  pleasures,  too  ;  and  it  is  idle  to  indulge  longings  for 
things  quite  out  of  our  power." 

Robert.  But  do  you  think  it  impossible  for  men  to  learn  to  fly  ? 

Father.  I  do — for  I  see  they  are  not  furnished  by  Nature  with  organs 
requisite  for  the  purpose. 

Rob.  Might  not  artificial  wings  be  contrived,  such  as  Daedalus  is  said 
to  have  used  1 

Fa.  Possibly  they  might;  but  the  difficulty  would  be  to  put  them  m 
motion. 

Rob.  Why  could  not  a  man  move  them,  if  they  were  fastened  to  his 
shoulders,  as  well  as  a  bird? 

Fa.  Because  he  has  got  arms  to  move  which  the  bird  has  not.  The 
same  organs  which  in  quadrupeds  are  employed  to  move  the  fore-legs, 
and  in  man  the  arms,  are  used  by  birds  in  the  motion  of  the  wings.  Nay, 
muscles  or  bundles  of  flesh,  that  move  the  wings,  are  proportionally  much 
larger  and  stronger  than  those  bestowed  upon  our  arms ;  so  that  it  is 
impossible,  formed  as  we  are,  that  we  should  use  wings,  were  they  made 
and  fastened  on  with  ever  so  much  art. 

Rob.  But  angels,  and  cupids,  and  such  things  are  painted  with  wings  ; 
and  I  think  they  look  very  natural. 

Fa.  To  you  they  may  appear  so ;  but  an  anatomist  sees  them  at  once 
to  be  monsters,  which  could  not  really  exist. 

Rob.  God  might  have  created  winged  men,  however,  if  he  had  pleased. 

Fa.  No  doubt ;  but  they  could  not  have  had  the  same  shape  that  men 
have  now.  They  would  have  been  different  creatures,  such  as  it  was  not 
in  his  plan  to  make.  But  you  that  long  to  fly — consider  if  you  have  made 
use  of  all  the  faculties  already  given  you !  You  want  to  subdue  the 
element  of  air — what  can  you  do  with  that  of  water  ?    Can  you  swim  7 


FLYING   AND    SWIMMING  231 

Rob.  No,  not  yet. 

Fa.  Your  companion,  Johnson,  I  think,  can  swim  very  well? 

Bob.  Yes. 
mFa.  Reflect,  then,  on  the  difference  betwixt  him  and  you.  A  boat 
oversets  with  you  both  in  a  deep  stream.  You  plump  at  once  to  the 
bottom,  and  infallibly  lose  your  life.  He  rises  like  a  cork,  darts  away 
with  the  greatest  ease,  and  reaches  the  side  in  perfect  safety.  Both  of 
you,  pursued  by  a  bull,  come  to  the  side  of  a  river.  He  jumps  in  and 
crosses  it.  You  are  drowned  if  you  attempt  it,  and  tossed  by  the  bull  if 
you  do  not.  What  an  advantage  he  has  over  you  !  Yet  you  are  furnished 
with  exactly  the  same  bodily  powers  that  he  is.     How  is  this  1 

Bob.  Because  he  has  been  taught,  and  I  have  not. 

Fa.  True,  but  it  is  an  easy  thing  to  learn,  and  requires  no  other 
instruction  than  boys  can  give  one  another  when  they  bathe  together :  so 
that  I  wonder  anybody  should  neglect  to  acquire  an  art  at  once  agreeable 
and  useful.  The  Romans  used  to  say,  by  way  of  proverb,  of  a  blockhead, 
"  He  can  neither  read  nor  swim."  You  may  remember  how  Cesar  was 
saved  at  Alexandria  by  throwing  himself  into  the  sea,  and  swimming 
with  one  hand,  while  he  held  up  his  commentaries  with  the  other. 

Bob.  I  should  like  very  well  to  swim,  and  I  have  often  tried,  but  I 
always  pop  under  water,  and  that  daunts  me. 

Fa.  And  it  is  that  fear  which  prevents  you  from  succeeding. 

Bob.  But  is  it  as  natural  for  man  to  swim  as  for  other  creatures  ?  I 
have  beard  that  the  young  of  all  other  animals  swim  the  first  time  they 
are  thrown  into  the  water. 

Fa.  They  do — they  are  without  fear.  In  our  climate  the  water  is 
generally  cold,  and  is  early  made  an  object  of  terror.  But  in  the  hot 
countries,  where  bathing  is  one  of  the  greatest  pleasures,  young  children 
swim  so  early  and  well,  that  I  should  suppose  they  take  to  it  almost 
naturally. 

Bob.  I  am  resolved  to  learn,  and  will  ask  Johnson  to  take  me  with  him 
to  the  river. 

Fa.  Do ;  but  let  him  find  you  a  safe  place  to  begin  at.  I  don't  want 
you,  however,  to  proceed  so  cautiously  as  Sir  Nicholas  Gimcrack  did. 

Bob.  How  was  that  ? 

Fa.  He  spread  himself  out  on  a  large  table,  and  placing  before  him  a 
basin  of  water  with  a  frog  in  it,  he  struck  with  his  arms  and  legs  as  he 
observed  the  animal  do. 


232  NINETEENTH    EVENING. 

Rob.  And  did  that  teach  him  ? 

Fa,  Yes — to  swim  on  dry  land ;  but  he  never  ventured  himself  in 
the  water. 

Rob.  Shall  I  get  corks  or  bladders  ? 

Fa.  No ;  learn  to  depend  on  your  own  powers.  It  is  a  good  lesson  in 
other  things,  as  well  as  in  swimming.  Learning  to  swim  with  corks,  is 
like  learning  to  construe  Latin  with  a  translation  on  the  other  side.  It 
saves  some  pains  at  first,  but  the  business  is  not  done  half  so  effectually. 


THE  FEMALE  CHOICE.— A  Talk. 

A  young  girl,  having  fatigued  herself  one  hot  day  with  running  about 
the  garden,  sat  herself  down  in  a  pleasant  arbour,  where  she  presently 
fell  asleep.  During  her  slumbers,  two  female  figures  presented  themselves 
before  her.  One  was  loosely  habited  in  a  thin  robe  of  pink  with  light 
green  trimmings.  Her  sash  of  silver  gauze  flowed  to  the  ground.  Her 
fair  hair  fell  in  ringlets  down  her  neck ;  and  her  head-dress  consisted  of 
artificial  flowers  interwoven  with  feathers.  She  held  in  one  hand  a  ball- 
ticket,  and  in  the  other  a  fancy-dress  all  covered  with  spangles  and  knots 
of  gay  riband.  She  advanced  smiling  to  the  girl,  and  with  a  familiar  air 
thus  addressed  her : — 

"  My  dearest  Melissa,  I  am  a  kind  genius,  who  have  watched  you 
from  your  birth,  and  have  joyfully  beheld  all  your  beauties  expand, 
till  at  length  they  have  rendered  you  a  companion  worthy  of  me.  See 
what  I  have  brought  you.  This  dress  and  this  ticket  will  give  you  free 
access  to  all  the  ravishing  delights  of  my  palace.  With  me  you  will  pass 
your  days  in  a  perpetual  round  of  ever-varying  amusements.  Like  the 
gay  butterfly,  you  will  have  no  other  business  than  to  flutter  from  flower 
to  flower,  and  spread  your  charms  before  admiring  spectators.  No 
restraints,  no  toils,  no  dull  tasks  are  to  be  found  within  my  happy 
domains.  All  is  pleasure,  life,  and  good  humour.  Come,  then,  my  dear ! 
Let  me  put  this  dress  on  you,  which  will  make  you  quite  enchanting;  and 
away,  away,  with  me !" 

Melissa  felt  a  strong  inclination  to  comply  with  the  call  of  this  inviting 
nymph ;  but  first  she  thought  it  would  be  prudent  at  least  to  ask  her  name. 

"  My  name,"  said  she,  "  is  Dissipation." 

The  other  female  then  advanced.  She  was  clothed  in  a  close  habit  of 
^rown  stuff,  simply  relieved  with  white.     She  wore  her  smooth  hair  under 


THE    FEMALE    CHOICE.  233 

a  plain  cap.  Her  whole  person  was  perfectly  neat  and  clean.  Her  look 
was  serious,  but  satisfied ;  and  her  air  was  staid  and  composed.  She  held 
in  one  hand  a  distaff;  on  the  opposite  arm  hung  a  workbasket ;  and  the 
girdle  round  her  waist  was  garnished  with  scissors,  knitting  needles,  reels, 
and  other  implements  of  female  labour.  A  bunch  of  keys  hung  at  her  side. 
She  thus  accosted  the  sleeping  girl : — 

"  Melissa,  I  am  the  genius  who  have  ever  been  the  friend  and  companion 
of  your  mother ;  and  I  now  offer  my  protection  to  you.  I  have  no  allure- 
ments to  tempt  you  with,  like  those  of  my  gay  rival.  Instead  of  spending 
all  your  time  in  amusements,  if  you  enter  yourself  of  my  train,  you  must 
rise  early,  and  pass  the  long  day  in  a  variety  of  employments,  some  of 
them  difficult,  some  laborious,  and  all  requiring  some  exertion  of  body  or 
mind.  You  must  dress  plainly,  live  mostly  at  home,  and  aim  at  being 
useful  rather  than  shining.  But  in  return  I  will  ensure  you  content,  even 
spirits,  self-approbation,  and  the  esteem  of  all  who  thoroughly  know  you. 
If  these  offers  appear  to  your  young  mind  less  inviting  than  those  of  my 
rival,  be  assured,  however,  that  they  are  more  real.  She  has  promised 
much  more  than  she  can  ever  make  good.  Perpetual  pleasures  are  no 
more  in  the  power  of  Dissipation,  than  of  Vice  or  Folly  to  bestow.  Her 
delights  quickly  pall,  and  are  inevitably  succeeded  by  languor  and  disgust. 
She  appears  to  you  under  disguise,  and  what  you  see  is  not  her  real  face. 
For  myself,  I  shall  never  seem  to  you  less  amiable  than  I  now  do,  but,  on 
the  contrary,  you  will  like  me  better  and  better.  If  I  look  grave  to  you 
now,  you  will  hear  me  sing  at  my  work ;  and  when  work  is  over,  I  can 
dance  too.  But  I  have  said  enough.  It  is  time  for  you  to  choose  whom 
you  will  follow,  and  upon  that  choice  all  your  happiness  depends.  If  you 
would  know  my  name,  it  is  Housewifery." 

Melissa  heard  her  with  more  attention  than  delight ;  and  though  over- 
awed by  her  manner,  she  could  not  help  turning  again  to  take  another 
look  at  the  first  speaker.  She  beheld  her  still  offering  her  presents  with 
so  bewitching  an  air  that  she  felt  it  scarcely  possible  to  resist :  when,  by 
a  lucky  accident,  the  mask  with  which  Dissipation's  face  was  so  artfully 
covered,  fell  off.  As  soon  as  Melissa  beheld,  instead  of  the  smiling  features 
of  youth  and  cheerfulness,  a  countenance  wan  and  ghastly  with  sickness, 
and  soured  by  fretfulness,  she  turned  away  with  horror,  and  gave  her  hand 
unreluctantly  to  her  sober  and  sincere  companion. 


Byes  and  No  Eyes,  p.  24J. 

EVENING  XX. 


ON  METALS. 


Tutor — George — Harry. 
Tutor.  Well — have  you  forgotten  what  I  told  you  about  metals  the 
other  day  ? 

George.  Ono! 

Harry.  I  am  sure  I  have  not. 

Tut.  What  metals  were  they  that  we  talked  about? 

Geo.  Gold,  silver,  and  quicksilver. 

234 


ON    METALS.  235 

Tut  Suppose,  then,  we  go  on  to  the  rest  ? 

Geo.  Pray,  do. 

Har.  Yes,  by  alL  means. 

Tut.  Very  well.    You  know  copper,  I  do  n't  doubt  ? 

Geo.  O  yes  ! 

Tut.  What  colour  do  you  call  it? 

Geo.  I  think  it  is  a  sort  of  reddish  brown. 

Tut.  True.  Sometimes,  however,  it  is  of  a  bright  red,  like  sealing-wax. 
It  is  not  a  very  heavy  metal,  being  not  quite  nine  times  the  weight  of 
water.  It  is  very  ductile,  bearing  to  be  rolled  or  hammered  out  to  a  very 
thin  plate,  and  also  to  be  drawn  out  to  a  fine  wire. 

Har.  I  remember  seeing  a  penny  that  had  been  rolled  out  to  a  long  riband. 

Geo.  Yes,  and  I  have  seen  half  a  dozen  men  at  a  time  with  great 
hammers  beating  out  a  piece  of  copper  at  the  brazier's. 

Tut.  Copper  requires  a  very  considerable  heat  to  melt  it :  and  by  long 
exposure  to  the  fire,  it  may  be  burnt  or  calcined ;  for,  like  all  we  are  now 
to  speak  of,  it  is  an  imperfect  metal. 

Har.  And  it  rusts  very  easily,  does  it  not  ? 

Tut,  It  does  ;  for  all  acids  dissolve  or  corrode  it,  so  do  salts  of  every 
kind:  whence  even  air  and  common  water  in  a  short  time  act  upon  it,  for 
they  are  never  free  from  somewhat  of  a  saline  nature. 

Geo.  Is  not  verdigris  the  rust  of  copper? 

Tut.  It  is ;  a  rust  produced  by  the  acid  of  grapes.  But  every  rust  of 
copper  is  of  a  blue  or  green  colour,  as  well  as  verdigris. 

Har.  And  are  they  all  poison,  too  ? 

Tut.  They  are  all  so  in  some  degree,  producing  violent  sickness  and 
pain  in  the  bowels.  They  are  all,  too,  extremely  nauseous  to  the  taste, 
and  the  metal  itself  when  heated,  tastes  and  smells  very  disagreeably. 

Har.  Why  is  it  used,  then,  so  much  in  cooking,  brewing,  and  the  like  7 

Tut.  Because  it  is  a  very  convenient  metal  for  making  vessels,  especially 
large  ones,  as  it  is  easily  worked,  and  is  sufficiently  strong,  though 
hammered  thin,  and  bears  the  fire  well.  And  if  vessels  of  it  are  kept 
quite  clean,  and  the  liquor  not  suffered  to  stand  long  in  them  when  cold 
there  is  no  danger  in  their  use.  But  copper  vessels  for  cooking  are 
generally  lined  on  the  inside  with  tin. 

Geo.  What  else  is  copper  used  for  ? 

Tut.  A  variety  of  things.  Sheets  of  copper  are  sometimes  used  to 
cover  buildings;  and  of  late  a  great  quantity  is  consumed  in  sheathing 


236  TWENTIETH    EVENING. 

ships,  that  is,  in  covering  all  the  part  under  water ;  the  purpose  of  which 
is,  to  protect  the  timber  from  the  worms,  and  also  to  make  the  ship  sail 
faster,  by  means  of  the  smoothness  and  therefore  less  obstruction  which 
the  copper  offers  to  the  water,  as  the  ship  is  forced  through  it  by  the 
action  of  the  wind  on  the  sails. 

Har.  Money  is  made  of  copper,  too. 

Tut.  It  is ;  for  it  takes  an  impression  in  coining  very  well,  and  its  value 
is  a  proper  proportion  below  silver,  for  a  price  for  the  cheapest  commodities. 
In  some  poor  countries  they  have  little  other  than  copper  coin.  Another 
great  use  of  copper  is  as  an  ingredient  in  mixed  metals,  such  as  bell- 
metal,  cannon-metal,  and  particularly  brass. 

Har.  But  brass  is  yellow. 

Tut.  True ;  it  is  converted  to  that  colour  by  means  of  another  metallic 
substance,  named  zinc  or  spelter,  the  natural  colour  of  which  is  white. 
A  kind  of  brown  stone  called  calamine  is  an  ore  of  zinc.  By  filling  a  pot 
with  layers  of  powdered  calamine  and  charcoal  placed  alternately  with 
copper,  and  applying  a  pretty  strong  heat,  the  zinc  is  driven  in  vapour  out 
of  the  calamine,  and  penetrates  the  copper,  changing  it  into  brass. 

Geo.  What  is  the  use  of  turning  copper  into  brass  ? 

Tut.  It  gains  a  fine  gold-like  colour,  and  becomes  harder,  more  easy  to 
melt,  and  less  liable  to  rust.  Hence  it  is  preferred  for  a  variety  of  utensils, 
ornamental  and  useful.  Brass  does  not  bear  hammering  well,  but  is 
generally  cast  into  the  shape  wanted,  and  then  turned  in  a  lathe  and 
polished.    Well — these  are  the  principal  things  I  have  to  say  about  copper. 

Har.  But  where  does  it  come  from  ? 

Tut.  Copper  is  found  in  many  countries.  The  Isle  of  Great  Britain 
yields  abundance,  especially  in  Wales  and  Cornwall.  In  Anglesey  is  a 
whole  hill  called  Paris  Mountain,  consisting  of  copper-ore,  from  which 
immense  quantities  are  dug  every  year.     Now  for  iron. 

Har.  Ay  !  that  is  the  most  useful  of  all  the  metals. 

Tut.  I  think  it  is ;  and  it  is  likewise  the  most  common,  for  there  are  few 
countries  in  the  world  possessing  hills  and  rocks,  where  it  is  not  met  with, 
more  or  less.  Iron  is  the  hardest  of  metals,  the  most  elastic  or  springy, 
very  tenacious  or  difficult  to  break,  the  most  difficultly  fusible,  and  one  of 
the  lightest,  being  only  seven  or  eight  times  as  heavy  as  water. 

Geo.  You  say  it  is  difficult  to  break ;  but  I  snapped  the  blade  of  a  pen- 
knife the  other  day  by  only  bending  it  a  little ;  and  my  mother  is  continually 
breaking  her  needles. 


ON    METALS.  237 

Tut.  Properly  objected;  but  the  qualities  of  iron  differ  extremely 
according  to  the  method  of  preparing  it.  There  are  forged  iron,  cast  iron, 
and  steel,  which  are  very  different  from  each  other.  Iron,  when  first 
melted  from  its  ore,  has  little  malleability,  and  the  vessels  and  other 
implements  that  are  made  of  it  in  that  state,  by  casting  into  moulds,  are 
easily  broken.  It  acquires  toughness  and  malleability  by  forging,  which 
is  done  by  beating  it  when  red-hot  with  heavy  hammers,  till  it  becomes 
ductile  and  flexible.  Steel,  again,  is  made  my  heating  small  bars  of  iron 
with  charcoal,  bone,  and  horn  shavings,  or  other  inflammable  matters,  by 
which  it  acquires  a  finer  grain  and  more  compact  texture,  and  becomes 
harder,  and  more  elastic.  Steel  may  be  rendered  either  very  flexible  or 
brittle,  by  different  manners  of  tempering,  which  is  performed  by  heating 
and  then  quenching  it  in  water. 

Geo.  All  cutting  instruments  are  made  of  steel,  are  they  not  ? 

Tut.  Yes ;  and  the  very  fine-edged  ones  are  generally  tempered  brittle, 
as  razors,  penknives,  and  surgeons'  instruments;  but  sword-blades  are 
made  flexible,  and  the  best  of  them  will  bend  double  without  breaking  or 
becoming  crooked.  The  steel  of  which  springs  are  made  has  the  highest 
possible  degree  of  elasticity  given  it.  A  watch-spring  is  one  of  the  most 
perfect  examples  of  this  kind.  Steel  for  ornaments  is  made  extremely 
hard  and  close-grained,  so  as  to  bear  an  exquisite  polish.  Common 
hammered  iron  is  chiefly  used  for  works  of  strength,  as  horseshoes,  bars, 
bolts,  and  the  like.  It  will  bend  but  not  straighten  itself  again,  as  you 
may  see  in  the  kitchen  poker.  Cast  iron  is  used  for  pots  and  caldrons, 
cannons,  cannon-balls,  grates,  pillars,  and  many  other  purposes  in  which 
hardness  without  flexibility  is  wanted. 

Geo.  What  a  vast  variety  of  uses  this  metal  is  put  to  ! 

Tut.  Yes ;  I  know  not  when  I  should  have  done,  if  I  were  tell  you  of  all. 

Har.  Then  I  think  it  is  really  more  valuable  than  gold,  though  it  is  so 
much  cheaper. 

Tut.  That  was  the  opinion  of  the  wise  Solon,  when  he  observed  to  the 
rich  king  Croesus,  who  was  showing  him  his  treasures, li  He  who  possesses 
more  iron  will  soon  be  master  of  all  this  gold." 

Har.  I  suppose  he  meant  weapons  and  armour  ? 

Tut.  He  did ;  but  there  are  many  nobler  uses  for  these  metals ;  and 
few  circumstances  denote  the  progress  of  the  arts  in  a  country  more  than 
having  at:ained  the  full  use  of  iron,  without  which  scarcely  any  manu- 
facture or  machinery  can  be  brought  to  perfection.    From  the  difficulty  of 


238  TWENTIETH    EVENING. 

melting  it  out  of  the  ore,  many  nations  have  been  longer  in  discovering  it 
than  some  of  the  other  metals.  The  Greeks,  in  Homer's  time,  seem  to 
have  employed  copper  or  brass  for  their  weapons  much  more  than  iron ; 
and  the  Mexicans  and  Peruvians,  who  possessed  gold  and  silver,  were 
unacquainted  with  iron,  when  the  Spaniards  invaded  them. 

Geo.  Iron  is  very  subject  to  rust,  however. 

Tut.  It  is  so,  and  that  is  one  of  its  worst  properties.  Every  liquor,  and 
even  a  moist  air  corrode  it.  But  the  rust  of  iron  is  not  pernicious:  on  the 
contrary,  it  is  a  very  useful  medicine. 

Geo.  I  have  heard  of  steel  drops  and  steel  filings  given  for  medicine. 

Tut.  Yes ;  iron  is  given  in  a  variety  of  forms,  and  the  property  of  them 
all  is  to  strengthen  the  constitution.  Many  springs  are  made  medicinal 
by  the  iron  that  they  dissolve  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth.  These  are  called 
chalybeate  waters,  and  they  may  be  known  by  their  inky  taste,  and  the 
rust-coloured  sediment  they  leave  in  their  course. 

Har.  May  we  drink  such  water  if  we  meet  with  it? 

Tut.  Yes  ;  it  will  do  you  no  harm,  at  least.  There  is  one  other  property 
of  iron,  well  worth  knowing,  and  that  is,  that  it  is  the  only  thing  attracted 
by  the  magnet  or  loadstone. 

Geo.  I  had  a  magnet  once  that  would  take  up  needles  and  keys ;  but  i* 
seemed  a  bar  of  iron  itself. 

Tut.  True.  The  real  loadstone,  which  is  a  particular  ore  of  iron,  can 
communicate  its  virtue  to  a  piece  of  iron  by  rubbing  it;  nay,  a  bar  of  iron 
itself,  in  length  of  time,  by  being  placed  in  a  particular  position,  will 
acquire  the  same  property. 

Geo.  Is  all  the  iron  used  in  England  produced  there  ? 

Tut.  By  no  means.  Their  extensive  manufactures  require  a  great 
importation  of  iron.  Much  is  brought  from  Norway,  Russia,  and  Sweden ; 
and  the  Swedish  is  reckoned  particularly  excellent.  Well,  now  to  another 
metal.     I  dare  say  you  can  tell  me  a  good  deal  about  lead? 

Har.  I  know  several  things  about  it.  It  is  very  heavy  and  soft,  and 
easily  melted. 

Tut.  True;  these  are  some  of  its  distinguishing  properties.  Its  weight 
is  between  eleven  and  twelve  times  that  of  water.  Its  colour  is  a  dull 
bluish  white  ;  and  from  this  livid  hue,  as  well  as  its  being  totally  void  of 
spring  or  elasticity,  it  has  acquired  a  sort  of  character,  of  dulness  and 
sluggishness.  Thus  we  say  of  a  stupid  man,  that  he  has  a  leaden  dis- 
position. 


ON   METALS.  239 

Geo.  Lead  is  very  malleable,  I  think  ? 

Tut.  Yes ;  it  may  be  beaten  out  into  a  pretty  thin  leaf,  but  it  will  not 
bear  drawing  into  fine  wire.  It  is  not  only  very  fusible,  but  very  readily 
oxidized  by  heat,  changing  into  a  powder,  or  a  scaly  matter,  which  may 
be  made  to  take  all  colours  by  the  fire,  from  yellow  to  deep  red.  You 
have  seen  red  lead  1 

Geo.  Yes. 

Tut.  That  is  oxide  of  lead  exposed  for  a  considerable  time  to  a  strong 
flame.  Lead  may  even  be  changed  into  glass  by  a  moderate  heat ;  and 
there  is  a  good  deal  of  it  in  our  finest  glass. 

Geo.  What  is  white  lead  ? 

Tut.  It  is  lead  corroded  by  the  steam  of  vinegar.  Lead  in  various 
forms  is  much  used  by  painters.  Its  oxides  dissolve  in  oil,  and  are 
employed  for  the  purpose  of  thickening  paint  and  making  it  dry.  All  lead 
paints,  however,  are  unwholesome  as  long  as  they  continue  to  smell,  and 
the  fumes  of  lead,  when  melted,  are  likewise  pernicious.  This  is  the 
cause  why  painters  and  plumbers  are  so  subject  to  various  diseases,  par- 
ticularly violent  colics  and  palsies.  The  white-lead  manufacture  is  so 
hurtful  to  the  health,  that  the  workmen,  in  a  very  short  time,  are  apt  to 
lose  the  use  of  their  limbs,  and  be  otherwise  severely  indisposed. 

Geo.  I  wonder,  then,  that  anybody  will  work  in  it. 

Tut.  Ignorance  and  high  wages  are  sufficient  to  induce  them.  But  it 
is  to  be  lamented  that  in  a  great  many  manufactures  the  health  and  lives 
of  individuals  are  sacrificed  to  the  convenience  and  profit  of  the  commu- 
nity. Lead,  too,  when  dissolved,  as  it  may  be  in  all  sour  liquors,  is  a 
slow  poison,  and  the  more  dangerous,  as  it  gives  no  disagreeable  taste.  A 
salt  of  lead  made  with  vinegar,  is  so  sweet,  as  to  be  called  the  sugar  of 
lead.  It  has  been  too  common  to  put  this  or  some  other  preparation  of 
lead  into  sour  wines,  in  order  to  cure  them ;  and  much  mischief  has  been 
done  by  this  practice. 

Geo.  If  lead  is  poisonous,  is  it  not  wrong  to  make  water-pipes  and 
cisterns  of  it? 

Tut.  This  has  been  objected  to ;  but  it  does  not  appear  that  water  can 
dissolve  anv  of  the  lead.  Nor  does  it  readily  rust  in  the  air,  and  hence 
it  is  much  used  to  cover  buildings  with,  as  well  as  to  line  spouts  and 
water-courses.  For  these  purposes  the  lead  is  cast  into  sheets,  which  are 
easily  cut  and  hammered  into  any  shape. 

Har.  Bullets  and  shot,  too,  are  made  of  lead. 


240  TWENTIETH    EVENING. 

Tut.  They  are ;  and  in  this  way  they  are  ten  times  more  destructive 
than  as  a  poison. 

Geo.  I  think  lead  seems  to  be  more  used  than  any  metal  except  iron. 

Tut.  It  is ;  and  the  plenty  of  it  in  our  country  is  a  great  benefit  to  us, 
both  for  domestic  use,  and  as  an  article  that  brings  in  much  profit  by 
exportation. 

Geo.  Where  are  our  principal  lead  mines  ? 

Tut.  They  are  much  scattered  about.  The  west  of  England  produces 
some,  in  Cornwall,  Devonshire,  and  Somersetshire.  Wales  affords  a 
large  quantity.  Derbyshire  has  long  been  noted  for  its  lead  mines,  and 
so  have  Northumberland  and  Durham.  And  there  are  considerable  ones 
in  the  southern  part  of  Scotland.  Now  do  you  recollect  another  metal  to 
be  spoken  about? 

Geo.  Tin. 

Tut.  True.  Tin  resembles  lead  in  colour,  but  has  a  more  silvery 
whiteness.  It  is  soft  and  flexible,  like  lead,  but  is  distinguished  by  the 
crackling  noise  it  makes  on  being  bent.  It  melts  as  easily  as  lead,  and 
also  is  readily  oxidized  by  keeping  it  in  the  fire.  It  is  the  lightest  of  the 
metals,  being  only  seven  times  as  heavy  as  water.  It  may  be  beaten  into 
a  thin  leaf,  but  not  drawn  out  to  wire. 

Geo.  Is  tin  of  much  use  ? 

Tut.  It  is  not  often  used  by  itself,  but  very  frequently  in  conjunction 
with  other  metals.  As  tin  is  little  liable  to  rust,  or  to  be  corroded  by 
common  liquors,  it  is  employed  for  a  lining  or  coating  of  vessels  made  of 
copper  or  iron.  The  saucepans  and  kettles  in  the  kitchen,  you  know,  are 
all  tinned. 

Geo.  Yes ;  how  is  it  done  ? 

Tut.  By  melting  the  tin,  and  spreading  it  upon  the  surface  of  the  copper, 
which  is  first  heated,  in  order  to  make  the  tin  adhere. 

Geo.  But  what  are  the  vessels  made  at  the  tinman's  ?  Are  they  not 
all  tin  ? 

Tut.  No.  Tinned  ware,  as  it  is  properly  called,  is  made  of  thin  iron 
plates,  coated  over  with  tin  by  dipping  them  into  a  vessel  full  of  melted 
tin.  These  plates  are  afterward  cut  and  bent  to  proper  shapes,  and  the 
joinings  are  soldered  together  with  a  mixture  of  tin  and  other  metals. 
Another  similar  use  of  tin  is  in  what  is  called  the  silvering  of  pins. 
Geo.  What — is  not  that  real  silvering  ? 
Tut.  No.     The  pins  which  are  made  of  brass  wire,  after  being  pointed 


OJS    METALS.  ,  241 

and  headed,  are  boiled  in  hot  water,  in  which  grain-tin  is  put  along  with 
tartar,  which  is  a  crust  that  collects  on  the  inside  of  wine  casks.  The 
tartar  dissolves  some  of  the  tin,  and  makes  it  adhere  to  the  surface  of  the 
pins,  and  thus  thousands  are  covered  in  an  instant. 

Har.  That  is  as  clever  as  what  you  told  us  of  the  gilding  of  buttons  ! 
Tut.  It  is.  Another  purpose  for  which  great  quantities  of  tin  used  to 
be  employed  was  the  making  of  pewter.  The  best  pewter  consists  chiefly 
of  tin,  with  a  small  mixture  of  other  metals  to  harden  it ;  and  the  London 
pewter  was  brought  to  such  perfection  as  to  look  almost  as  well  as  silver. 
Geo.  I  can  just  remember  a  long  row  of  pewter  plates  at  my  grand- 
mother's. 

Tut.  You  may.  In  her  time  all  the  plates  and  dishes  for  the  table  were 
made  of  pewter,  and  a  handsome  range  of  pewter  shelves  was  thought  a 
capital  ornament  for  a  kitchen.  At  present,  this  trade  is  almost  come  to 
nothing,  through  the  use  of  earthenware  and  china ;  and  pewter  is 
employed  for  little  but  the  worms  of  stills,  and  barbers'  basins,  and  porter- 
pots.  But  a  good  deal  is  still  exported.  Tin  is  likewise  an  ingredient 
in  other  mixed  metals  for  various  purposes,  but,  on  the  whole,  less  of  it  is 
used  than  of  the  other  common  metals. 

Geo.  Is  not  England  more  famous  for  tin  than  any  other  country  ? 
have  read  of  the  Phoenicians  trading  here  for  it  in  very  early  times. 

Tut.  They  did  ;  and  tin  is  still  a  very  valuable  article  of  export  from 
England.     Much  of  it  is  sent  as  far  as  China.     The  tin  mines  are  chiefly 
in  Cornwall,  England,  and  I  believe  they  are  the  most  productive  of  any 
in  Europe.     Very  fine  tin  is  also  got  in  the  peninsula  of  Malacca  in  the 
East  Indies.     Well — we  have  now  gone  through  the  metals. 
Geo.  But  you  said  nothing  about  a  kind  of  metal  called  zinc. 
Tut.  That  is  one  of  another  class  of  mineral  substances  called  semi- 
metals.     These  resemble  metals  in  every  quality  but  ductility,  of  which 
mey  are  almost  wholly  destitute,  and  for  want  of  it  they  can  seldom  be 
used  in  the  arts,  except  when  joined  with  metals. 
Geo.  Are  there  many  of  them  ? 

Tut.  Yes,  several ;  but  we  will  not  talk  of  them  till  I  have  taken  some 
>pportunity  of  showing  them  to  you,  for  probably  you  may  never  have 
seen  any  of  them.     Now  try  to  repeat  the  names  of  all  the  metals  to  me 
in  the  order  of  their  weight. 
Har.  There  is  first  gold. 
Geo.  Then  quicksilver,  lead,  silver. 

U 


242  TWENTIETH    EVENING. 

Har.  Copper,  iron,  tin. 

Tut.  Very  right.  Now  I  must  tell  you  of  an  old  fancy  that  chymists 
have  had  of  christening  these  metals  by  the  names  of  the  heavenly  bodies. 
They  have  called  gold  Sol,  or  the  suu. 

Geo.  That  is  suitable  enough  to  its  colour  and  brightness. 

Har.  Then  silver  should  be  the  moon,  for  I  have  heard  moonlight 
called  of  a  silvery  hue. 

Tut.  True ;  and  they  have  named  it  so.  It  is  Luna.  Quicksilver  is 
Mercury,  so  named  probably  from  its  great  propensity  to  dance  and  jump 
about,  for  Mercury,  you  know,  was  very  nimble. 

Geo.  Yes — he  had  wings  to  his  heels. 

Tut.  Copper  is  Venus. 

Geo.   Venus  !  surely  it  is  scarcely  beautiful  enough  for  that. 

Tut.  But  they  had  disposed  of  the  most  beautiful  ones  before.  Iron  is 
Mars, 

Har.  That  is  right  enough,  because  swords  are  made  of  iron. 

Tut.  True.  Then  tin  is  Jupiter,  and  lead  Saturn.  I  suppose  only  to 
make  out  the  number.  Yet  the  dulness  of  lead  might  be  thought  to  agree 
with  that  planet  which  is  most  remote  from  the  sun.  These  names, 
childish  as  they  may  seem,  are  worth  remembering,  since  chymists  and 
physicians  still  apply  them  to  many  preparations  of  the  various  metals 
You  will,  probably,  often  hear  of  martial,  lunar,  mercurial,  and  satur- 
nine ;  and  you  may  now  know  what  they  mean. 

Geo.  I  think  the  knowledge  of  metals  seems  more  useful  than  all  you 
have  told  us  about  plants. 

Tut.  I  do  n't  know  that.  Many  nations  make  no  use  at  all  of  metals, 
but  there  are  none  which  do  not  owe  a  great  part  of  their  subsistence  to 
vegetables.  However,  without  inquiring  what  parts  of  natural  knowledge 
are  most  useful,  you  may  be  assured  of  this,  that  all  are  useful  in  some 
degree  or  other ;  and  there  are  few  things  that  give  one  man  greater 
superiority  over  another,  than  the  extent  and  accuracy  of  his  knowledge 
in  these  particulars.  One  person  passes  all  his  life  upon  the  earth,  a 
stranger  to  it ;  while  another  finds  himself  at  home  everywhere. 

EYES  AND  NO  EYES;  OR,  THE  ART  OF  SEEING. 

"  Well,  Robert,  where  have  you  been  walking  this  afternoon  ?"  said 
Mr.  Andrews  to  one  of  his  pupils,  at  the  close  of  a  holyday. 


EYES    AND    NO    EYES.  243 

Robert.  I  have  been,  sir,  to  Broom-heath,  and  so  round  by  the  windmill 
upon  Camp-mount,  and  home  through  the  meadows  by  the  river-side. 

Mr.  Andrews.  Well,  that's  a  pleasant  round. 

Rob.  I  thought  it  very  dull,  sir ;  I  scarcely  met  with  a  single  person. 
I  had  rather  by  half  have  gone  along  the  turnpike-road. 

Mr.  An.  Why,  if  seeing  men  and  horses  is  your  object,  you  would, 
indeed,  be  better  entertained  on  the  high-road.     But  did  you  see  William? 

Rob.  We  set  out  together,  but  he  lagged  behind  in  the  lane,  so  I  walked 
on  and  left  him. 

Mr.  An.  That  was  a  pity.     He  would  have  been  company  for  you. 

Rob.  O,  he  is  so  tedious,  always  stopping  to  look  at  this  thing  and  that ! 
I  had  rather  walk  alone.    I  dare  say  he  is  not  got  home  yet. 

Mr.  An.  Here  he  comes.    Well,  William,  where  have  you  been  ? 

William.  O,  sir,  the  pleasantest  walk  !  I  went  all  over  Broom-heath, 
and  so  up  to  the  mill  at  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  then  down  among  the 
green  meadows  by  the  side  of  the  river. 

Mr.  An.  Why,  that  is  just  the  round  Robert  has  been  taking,  and  he 
complains  of  its  dulness,  and  prefers  the  high-road ! 

Will.  I  wonder  at  that.  I  am  sure  I  hardly  took  a  step  that  did  not 
delight  me,  and  I  have  brought  my  handkerchief  full  of  curiosities  home. 

Mr.  An.  Suppose,  then,  you  give  us  some  account  of  what  amused  you 
so  much.    I  fancy  it  will  be  as  new  to  Robert  as  to  me. 

Will.  I  will,  sir.  The  lane  leading  to  the  heath,  you  know,  is  close 
and  sandy,  so  I  did  not  mind  it  much,  but  made  the  best  of  my  way. 
However,  I  spied  a  curious  thing  enough  in  the  hedge.  It  was  an  old 
crab-tree,  out  of  which  grew  a  great  bunch  of  something  green,  quite 
different  from  the  tree  itself.     Here  is  a  branch  of  it. 

Mr.  An.  Ah  !  this  is  mistletoe,  a  plant  of  great  fame  for  the  use  made 
of  it  by  the  Druids  of  old,  in  their  religious  rites  and  incantations.  It 
bears  a  very  slimy  white  berry,  of  which  bird-lime  may  be  made,  whence 
its  Latin  name  of  Viscus.  It  is  one  of  those  plants  which  do  not  grow 
in  the  ground  by  a  root  of  their  own,  but  fix  themselves  upon  other  plants  j 
whence  they  have  been  humorously  styled  parasitical,  as  being  hangers- 
on,  or  dependants.  It  was  the  mistletoe  of  the  oak  that  the  Druids  par- 
ticularly honoured. 

Will.  A  little  farther  on  I  saw  a  green  woodpecker  fly  to  a  tree,  and 
run  up  the  trunk  like  a  cat. 

Mr.  An.  That  was  to  seek  for  insects  in  the  bark,  on  which  they  live. 


244  TWENTIETH    EVENING. 

They  bore  holes  with  their  strong  bills  for  that  purpose,  and  do  much 
damage  to  the  trees  by  it. 

Will.  What  beautiful  birds  they  are  ! 

Mr.  An.  Yes ;  they  have  been  called,  from  their  colour  and  size,  the 
English  parrot. 

Will,  When  I  got  upon  the  open  heath,  how  charming  it  was !  The 
air  seemed  so  fresh,  and  the  prospect  on  every  side  so  free  and  unbounded! 
Then  it  was  all  covered  with  gay  flowers,  many  of  which  I  had  never 
observed  before.  There  were,  at  least,  three  kinds  of  heath,  (I  have  got 
them  in  my  handkerchief  here,)  and  gorse,  and  broom,  and  bellflower,  and 
many  others  of  all  colours,  that  I  will  beg  you  presently  to  tell  me  the 
names  of. 

Mr.  An.  That  I  will  readily. 

Will.  I  saw,  too,  several  birds  that  were  new  to  me.  There  was  a 
pretty  grayish  one,  of  the  size  of  a  lark,  that  was  hopping  about  some 
great  stones  j  and  when  he  flew  he  showed  a  great  deal  of  white  above 
his  tail. 

Mr.  An.  That  was  a  wheat-ear.  They  are  reckoned  very  delicious 
birds  to  eat,  and  frequent  the  open  downs  in  Sussex,  and  some  other 
counties,  in  great  numbers. 

Will.  There  was  a  flock  of  lapwings,  upon  a  marshy  part  of  the  heath, 
that  amused  me  much.  As  I  came  near  them,  some  of  them  kept  flying 
round  and  round  just  over  my  head,  and  crying  pewit  so  distinctly,  one 
might  almost  fancy  they  spoke.  I  thought  I  should  have  caught  one  of 
them,  for  he  flew  as  if  one  of  his  wings  was  broken,  and  often  tumbled 
close  to  the  ground ;  but  as  I  came  near,  he  always  made  a  shift  to  get 
away. 

Mr.  An.  Ha,  ha !  you  were  finely  taken  in  then !  This  was  all  an 
artifice  of  the  bird  to  entice  you  away  from  its  nest;  for  they  build  upon 
the  bare  ground,  and  their  nests  would  easily  be  observed,  did  they  not 
draw  off  the  attention  of  intruders  by  their  loud  cries  and  counterfeit 
lameness. 

Will.  I  wish  I  had  known  that,  for  he  led  me  a  long  chase  often  over 
shoes  in  water.  However,  it  was  the  cause  of  my  falling  in  with  an  old 
man  and  a  boy  who  were  cutting  and  piling  up  turf  for  fuel,  and  I  had  a 
good  deal  of  talk  with  them  about  the  manner  of  preparing  the  turf,  and 
the  price  it  sells  at.  They  gave  me,  too,  a  creature  I  never  saw  before — 
a  young  viper,  which  they  had  just  killed,  together  with  its  dam.     I  have 


EYES    AND    NO    EYES.  245 

seen  several  common  snakes,  but  this  is  thicker  in  proportion,  and  of  a 
darker  colour  than  they  are. 

Mr.  An.  True.  Vipers  frequent  those  turfy,  boggy  grounds  pretty 
much,  and  T  have  known  several  turf-cutters  bitten  by  them. 

Will.  They  are  very  venomous,  are  they  not  ? 

Mr.  An.  Enough  so  to  make  their  wounds  painful  and  dangerous,  though 
they  seldom  prove  fatal. 

Will.  Well — I  then  took  my  course  up  to  the  windmill  on  the  mount. 
I  climbed  up  the  steps  of  the  mill,  in  order  to  get  a  better  view  of  the 
country  round.  What  an  extensive  prospect !  I  counted  fifteen  church- 
steeples  ;  and  I  saw  several  gentlemen's  houses  peeping  out  from  the 
midst  of  green  woods  and  plantations;  and  I  could  trace  the  windings 
of  the  river  all  along  the  low  grounds,  till  it  was  lost  behind  a  ridge  of 
hills.  But  I'll  tell  you  what  I  mean  to  do,  sir,  if  you  will  give  me 
leave. 

Mr.  An.  What  is  that  ? 

Will.  I  will  go  again,  and  take  with  me  Cary's  county-map,  by  which 
I  shall  probably  be  able  to  make  out  most  of  the  places. 

Mr.  An.  You  shall  have  it,  and  I  will  go  with  you  and  take  my  pocket 
spying-glass. 

Will.  I  shall  be  very  glad  of  that.  Well,  a  thought  struck  me,  that  as 
the  hill  is  called  Camp-mount,  there  might  probably  be  some  remains  of 
ditches  and  mounds  with  which  I  have  read  that  camps  were  surrounded. 
And  I  really  believe  I  discovered  something  of  that  sort  running  round 
one  side  of  the  mount. 

Mr.  An.  Very  likely  you  might.  I  know  antiquaries  have  described 
such  remains  as  existing  there,  which  some  suppose  to  be  Roman,  others 
Danish  ;  we  will  examine  them  farther,  when  we  go. 

Will.  From  the  hill  I  went  straight  down  to  the  meadows  below,  and 
walked  on  the  side  of  a  brook  that  runs  into  the  river.  It  was  all  bordered 
with  reeds  and  flags  and  tall  towering  plants,  quite  different  from  those  I 
had  seen  on  the  heath.  As  I  was  getting  down  the  bank  to  reach  one  of 
them,  I  heard  something  plunge  into  the  water  near  me.  It  was  a  large 
water-rat,  and  I  saw  it  swim  over  to  the  other  side,  and  go  into  its  hole. 
There  were  a  great  many  large  dragon-flies  all  about  the  stream  ;  I  caught 
one  of  the  finest,  and  have  got  him  here  in  a  leaf.  But  how  I  longed  to 
catch  a  bird  that  I  saw  hovering  over  the  water,  and  every  now  and  then 
darting  down  into  it !     It  was  all  over  a  mixture  of  the  most  beautiful 


246  TWENTIETH    EVENING. 

green  and  blue  with  some  orange  colour.    It  was  somewhat  less  than  a 
thrush,  and  had  a  large  head  and  bill,  and  a  short  tail. 

Mr.  An.  I  can  tell  you  what  that  bird  was — a  kingfisher ;  the  celebrated 
halcyon  of  the  ancients,  about  which  so  many  tales  are  told.  It  lives  on 
fish,  which  it  catches  in  the  manner  you  saw.  It  builds  in  holes  in  the 
banks,  and  is  a  shy  retired  bird,  never  to  be  seen  far  from  the  stream 
where  it  inhabits. 

Will.  I  must  try  to  get  another  sight  of  him,  for  I  never  saw  a  bird  that 
pleased  me  so  much.  Well — I  followed  this  little  brook  till  it  entered 
the  river,  and  then  took  the  path  that  runs  along  the  bank.  On  the 
opposite  side  I  observed  several  little  birds  running  along  the  shore,  and 
making  a  piping  noise.  They  were  brown  and  white,  and  about  as  big 
as  a  snipe. 

Mr.  An.  I  suppose  they  were  sand -pipers,  one  of  the  numerous  family 
of  birds  that  get  their  living  by  wading  among  the  shallows,  and  picking 
up  worms  and  insects. 

Will.  There  were  a  great  many  swallows,  too,  sporting  upon  the  surface 
of  the  water,  that  entertained  me  with  their  motions.  Sometimes  they 
dashed  into  the  stream;  sometimes  they  pursued  one  another  so  quick, 
that  the  eye  could  scarcely  follow  them.  In  one  place,  where  a  high, 
steep  sandbank  rose  directly  above  the  river,  I  observed  many  of  them  go 
in  and  out  of  holes  with  which  the  bank  was  bored  full. 

Mr.  An.  Those  were  sand-martens,  the  smallest  of  our  species  of 
swallows.  They  are  of  a  mouse-colour  above,  and  white  beneath.  They 
make  their  nests  and  bring  up  their  young  in  these  holes,  which  run  a 
great  depth,  and,  by  their  situation,  are  secure  from  all  plunderers. 

Will.  A  little  farther  I  saw  a  man  in  a  boat  who  was  catching  eels 
in  an  odd  way.  He  had  a  long  pole  with  broad  iron  prongs  at  the  end, 
just  like  Neptune's  trident,  only  there  were  five  instead  of  three.  This 
he  pushed  straight  down  among  the  mud  in  the  deepest  parts  of  the  river, 
and  fetched  up  the  eels  sticking  between  the  prongs. 

Mr.  An.  I  have  seen  this  method.     It  is  called  spearing  of  eels. 

Will.  While  I  was  looking  at  him,  a  heron  came  flying  over  my  head, 
with  his  large  flagging  wings.  He  lit  at  the  next  turn  of  the  river,  and  I 
crept  softly  behind  the  bank  to  watch  his  motions.  He  had  waded  into 
the  water  as  far  as  his  long  legs  would  carry  him,  and  was  standing  with 
his  neck  drawn  in,  looking  intently  on  the  stream.  Presently,  he  darted 
his  long  bill  as  quick  as  lightning  into  the  water,  and  drew  out  a  fish, 


EYES    AND    NO    EYES.  247 

which  he  swallowed.  I  saw  him  catch  another  in  the  same  manner. 
He  then  took  alarm  at  some  noise  I  made,  and  flew  awav  slowly  to  a 
wood  at  some  distance,  where  he  settled. 

Mr.  An.  Probably  his  nest  was  there,  for  herons  build  upon  the  loftiest 
trees  they  can  find,  and  sometimes  in  society  together,  like  rooks. 
Formerly,  when  these  birds  were  valued  for  the  amusement  of  hawking, 
many  gentlemen  had  their  heronries,  and  a  few  are  still  remaining. 

Will.  I  think  they  are  the  largest  wild  birds  we  have. 

Mr.  An.  They  are  of  a  great  length  and  spread  of  wing,  but  their  bodies 
are  comparatively  small. 

Will.  I  then  turned  homeward  across  the  meadows,  where  I  stopped  a 
while  to  look  at  a  large  flock  of  starlings  which  kept  flying  about  at  no 
great  distance.  I  could  not  tell  at  first  what  to  make  of  them ;  for  they 
rose  all  together  from  the  ground  as  thick  as  a  swarm  of  bees,  and  formed 
themselves  into  a  kind  of  black  cloud,  hovering  over  the  field.  After 
having  a  short  round  they  settled  again,  and  presently  rose  again  in  the 
same  manner.     I  dare  say  there  were  hundreds  of  them. 

Mr.  An.  Perhaps  so,  for  in  the  fenny  countries  their  flocks  are  so 
numerous  as  to  break  down  whole  acres  of  reeds  by  settling  on  them. 
This  disposition  of  starlings  to  fly  in  close  swarms  was  remarked  even  by 
Homer,  who  compares  the  foe  flying  from  one  of  his  heroes,  to  a  cloud 
of  stares  retiring  dismayed  at  the  approach  of  the  hawk. 

Will.  After  I  had  left  the  meadows,  I  crossed  the  cornfields  in  the 
way  to  our  house,  and  passed  by  a  deep  marl-pit.  Looking  into  it,  I  saw 
in  one  of  the  sides  a  cluster  of  what  I  took  to  be  shells;  and  upon  going 
down,  I  picked  up  a  clod  of  marl,  which  was  quite  full  of  them ;  but  how 
sea-shells  could  get  there  I  cannot  imagine. 

Mr.  An.  I  do  not  wonder  at  your  surprise,  since  many  philosophers 
have  been  much  perplexed  to  account  for  the  same  appearance.  It  is  not 
uncommon  to  find  great  quantities  of  shells^ind  relics  of  marine  animals 
even  in  the  bowels  of  high  mountains,  very  remote  from  the  sea.  They 
are  certainly  proofs  that  the  earth  was  once  in  a  very  different  state  from 
what  it  is  at  present ;  but  in  what  manner,  and  how  long  ago  these  changes 
took  place,  can  only  be  guessed  at. 

Will.  I  got  to  the  high  field  next  our  house  just  as  the  sun  was  setting, 
and  I  stood  looking  at  it  till  it  was  quite  lost.  What  a  glorious  sight! 
The  clouds  were  tinged  purple,  and  crimson,  and  yellow,  of  all  shades 
and  hues,  and  the  clear  sky  varied  from  blue  to  a  fine  green  at  the  horizon. 


248  TWENTIETH    EVENING. 

But  how  large  the  sun  appears  just  as  it  sets !  I  think  it  seems  twice  as 
big  as  when  it  is  overhead. 

Mr.  An.  It  does  so;  and  you  may  probably  have  observed  the  same 
apparent  enlargement  of  the  moon  at  its  rising. 

Will.  I  have  ;  but  pray,  what  is  the  reason  of  this  ? 

Mr.  An.  It  is  an  optical  deception,  depending  upon  principles  which  I 
cannot  well  explain  to  you  till  you  know  more  of  that  branch  of  science. 
But  what  a  number  of  new  ideas  this  afternoon's  walk  has  afforded  you ! 
I  do  not  wonder  that  you  found  it  amusing:  it  has  been  very  instructive. 
too.     D;d  you  see  nothing  of  all  these  sights,  Robert  ? 

Rob.   I  saw  some  of  them,  but  I  did  not  take  particular  notice  of  them. 

Mr.  An.  Why  not  ? 

Rob.  I  do  n't  know.  I  did  not  care  about  them,  and  I  made  the  best  of 
my  way  home. 

Mr.  An.  That  would  have  been  right  if  you  had  been  sent  with  a 
message ;  but  as  you  only  walked  for  amusement,  it  would  have  been 
wiser  to  have  sought  out  as  many  sources  of  it  as  possible.  But  so  it  is — 
one  man  walks  through  the  world  with  his  eyes  open,  and  another  with 
them  shut;  and  upon  this  difference  depends  all  the  superiority  of 
knowledge  the  one  acquires  above  the  other.  I  have  known  sailors  who 
had  been  in  all  the  quarters  of  the  world,  and  could  tell  you  nothing  but 
the  signs  of  the  tippling-houses  they  frequented  in  different  ports,  and  the 
price  and  quality  of  the  liquor.  On  the  other  hand,  a  Franklin  could  not 
cross  the  channel  without  making  some  observations  useful  to  mankind. 
While  many  a  vacant,  thoughtless  youth  is  whirled  throughout  Europe 
without  gaining  a  single  idea  worth  crossing  a  street  for,  the  observing 
eye  and  inquiring  mind  find  matter  of  improvement  and  delight  in  every 
ramble  in  town  or  country.  Do  you,  then,  William,  continue  to  make 
use  of  your  eyes:  and  you,  Robert,  learn  that  eyes  were  given  you  to  use. 


Umbelliferous  Plants,  p.  252. 

EVENING  XXI. 


WHY  THE  EARTH  MOVES  ROUND  THE  SUN. 
Papa — Lucy. 

Papa.  You  remember,  Lucy,  that  I  explained  to  you  some  time  ago 
what  was  the  cause  that  things  fell  to  the  ground. 

Lucy.  O  yes ;  it  was  because  the  ground  drew  them  to  it. 

Pa.  True.  That  is  a  consequence  of  the  universal  law  in  nature,  that 
bodies  attract  each  other  in  proportion  to  their  bulk.  So  a  very  small 
thing  in  the  neighbourhood  of  a  very  large  one,  always  tends  to  go  to  it, 
if  not  prevented  by  some  or  other  power.     Well— you  know  I  told  you 

11*  249 


250  TWENTY-FIRST  EVENING. 

that  the  sun  was  a  ball  a  vast  many  times  bigger  than  the  ball  we  inhabit, 
called  the  earth ;  upon  which  you  properly  asked,  how  then  it  happened 
that  the  earth  did  not  fall  into  the  sun. 

Lu.  And  why  does  it  not  ? 

Pa.  That  I  am  going  to  explain  to  you.  You  have  seen  your  brother 
whirl  round  an  ivory  ball  tied  to  the  end  of  a  string,  which  he  held  in  his 
hand. 

Lu.  Yes ;  and  I  have  done  it  myself,  too. 

Pa.  Well,  then — you  felt  that  the  ball  was  continually  pulling,  as  if  it 
tried  to  make  its  escape  1 

Lu.  Yes ;  and  one  my  brother  was  swinging  did  make  its  escape,  and 
flew  through  the  sash. 

Pa.  It  did  so.  That  was  a  lesson,  in  the  centrifugal  motion,  or  that 
power  by  which  a  body  thus  whirled,  continually  endeavours  to  fly  off 
from  the  centre  round  which  it  moves.  This  is  owing  to  the  force  or 
impulse  you  give  it  at  setting  out,  as  if  you  were  going  to  throw  it  away 
from  you.  The  string  by  which  you  hold  it,  on  the  contrary,  is  the  power 
which  keeps  the  ball  toward  the  centre,  called  the  centripetal  power. 
Thus  you  see  there  are  two  powers  acting  upon  the  ball  at  the  same  time, 
one  to  make  it  fly  off,  the  other  to  hold  it  in;  and  the  consequence  is,  that 
it  moves  directly  according  to  neither,  but  between  both ;  that  is,  round 
and  round.  This  it  continues  to  do  while  you  swing  it  properly;  but  if 
the  string  breaks  or  slips  off,  away  flies  the  ball ;  on  the  other  hand,  if  you 
cease  to  give  it  the  whirling  force,  it  falls  toward  your  hand. 

Lu.  I  understand  all  this. 

Pa.  I  will  give  you  another  instance  of  this  double  force  acting  at  the 
same  time.  Do  not  you  remember  seeing  some  curious  feats  of  horse- 
manship ? 

Lu.    Yes. 

Pa.  One  of  them  was,  that  a  man  standing  with  one  leg  upon  the 
saddle,  and  riding  full  speed,  threw  up  balls  into  the  air,  and  catched  them 
as  they  fell. 

Lu.  I  remember  it  very  well. 

Pa.  Perhaps  you  would  have  expected  these  balls  to  have  fallen  behind 
him,  as  he  was  going  at  such  a  rate? 

Lu.  So  I  did. 

Pa.  But  you  saw  that  they  fell  into  his  hand  as  directly  as  if  he  had 
been  standing  quite  still.   That  was  because  at  the  instant  he  threw  them 


EARTH    AND    SUN.  251 

up,  they  received  the  motion  of  the  horse  straight  forward  as  well  as  the 
upright  motion  that  he  gave  them,  so  that  they  made  a  slanting  line  through 
the  air,  and  came  down  in  the  same  place  they  would  have  reached  if  he 
had  held  them  in  his  hand  all  the  while. 

Lu.  That  is  very  curious,  indeed  ! 

Pa.  In  the  same  manner  you  may  have  observed,  in  riding  in  a  carnage, 
that  if  you  throw  anything  out  of  the  window,  it  falls  directly  opposite, 
just  as  if  the  carriage  was  standing  still,  and  is  not  left  behind  you. 

Lu.  I  will  try  that  the  next  time  I  ride  in  one. 

Pa.  You  are  then  to  imagine  the  sun  to  be  a  mighty  mass  of  matter, 
many  thousand  times  bigger  than  our  earth,  placed  in  the  centre,  quiet 
and  unmoved.  You  are  to  conceive  our  earth,  as  soon  as  created, 
launched  with  vast  force  in  a  straight  line,  as  if  it  were  a  bowl  on  a  green. 
It  would  have  flown  off  in  this  line  for  ever,  through  the  boundless  regions 
of  space,  had  it  not  at  the  same  instant  received  a  pull  from  the  sun  by  its 
attraction.  By  the  wonderful  skill  of  the  Creator,  these  two  forces  were 
made  exactly  to  counterbalance  each  other;  so  that  just  as  much  as  the 
earth,  from  the  original  motion  given  to  it,  tends  to  fly  forward,  just  so 
much  the  sun  draws  it  to  the  centre  ;  and  the  consequence  is,  that  it  takes 
a  course  between  the  two,  which  is  a  circle  round  and  round  the  sun. 

Lu.  But  if  the  earth  was  set  a  rolling  like  a  bowl  upon  a  green,  I  should 
think  it  would  stop  of  itself,  as  the  bowl  does. 

Pa.  The  bowl  stops  because  it  is  continually  rubbing  against  the 
ground,  which  checks  its  motion,  but  the  ball  of  the  earth  moves  in  empty 
space,  where  there  is  nothing  to  stop  it. 

Lu.  But  if  I  throw  a  ball  through  the  air,  it  will  not  go  on  for  ever,  but 
it  will  come  down  to  the  ground. 

Pa.  That  is  because  the  force  with  which  you  can  throw  it  is  much 
less  than  the  force  by  which  it  is  drawn  to  the  earth.  But  there  is  another 
reason,  too,  which  is  the  resistance  of  the  air.  This  space  all  round  us 
and  over  us  is  not  empty  space;  it  is  quite  full  of  a  thin  transparent 
fluid  called  air. 

Lu.  Is  it  ? 

Pa.  Yes.  If  you  move  your  hand  quickly  through  it,  you  will  find 
something  resisting  you,  though  in  a  slight  degree.  And  the  wind,  you 
well  know,  is  capable  of  pressing  against  anything  with  almost  irresistible 
force;  and  yet  wind  is  nothing  but  a  quantity  of  air  put  into  violent 
motion.     Everything,  then,  that  moves    through    the  air  is  continually 


252  TWENTY-FIRST    EVENING. 

obliged  to  push  some  of  this  fluid  out  of  the  way,  by  which  means  it  is 
constantly  losing  part  of  its  motion. 

Lu.  Then  the  earth  would  do  the  same  ? 

Pa.  No ;  for  it  moves  in  empty  space. 

Lu.  What,  does  it  not  move  through  the  air? 

Pa.  The  earth  does  not  move  through  the  air,  but  carries  the  air  along 
with  it.  All  the  air  is  contained  in  what  is  called  the  atmosphere,  which 
you  may  compare  to  a  kind  of  mi  a  or  fog  clinging  all  round  to  the  ball  of 
the  earth,  and  reaching  a  certain  distance  above  it,  which  has  been 
calculated  at  above  forty-five  miles. 

Lu.  That  is  above  the  clouds,  then. 

Pa.  Yes:  all  the  clouds  are  within  the  atmosphere,  for  they  are 
supported  by  the  air.  Well — this  atmosphere  rolls  about  along  with  the 
earth,  as  if  it  were  a  part  of  it,  and  moves  with  it  through  the  sky,  which 
is  a  vast  field  of  empty  space.  In  this  immense  space  are  all  the  stars 
and  planets,  which  have  also  their  several  motions.  There  is  nothing  to 
stop  them,  and  therefore  they  continually  go  on,  by  means  of  the  force  that 
the  Creator  has  originally  impressed  upon  them. 

Lu.  Do  not  some  of  the  stars  move  round  the  sun,  as  well  as  our  earth  ? 

Pa.  Yes ;  those  that  are  called  planets.  These  are  all  subject  to  the 
same  laws  of  motion  with  our  earth.  They  are  attracted  by  the  sun  as 
their  centre,  and  form,  along  with  the  earth,  that  assemblage  of  worlds, 
which  is  called  the  solar  system. 

Lu.  Is  the  moon  one  of  them? 

Pa.  The  moon  is  called  a  secondary  planet,  because  its  immediate 
connexion  is  with  our  earth,  round  which  it  rolls,  as  we  do  round  the  sun. 
It,  however,  accompanies  our  earth  on  its  journey  round  the  sun.  But  I 
will  tell  you  more  about  its  motion,  and  about  the  other  planets  and  stars 
another  time.  It  is  enough  at  present,  if  you  thoroughly  understand  what 
I  have  been  describing. 

Lu.  I  think  I  do. 


THE   UMBELLIFEROUS    PLANTS. 

Tutor —  George — Harry. 
Harry.  What  plant  is  that  man  gathering  under  the  hedge  ? 
George.  I  do  n't  know ;  but  the  boys  call  the  stalks  hexes,  and  blow 
through  them. 


UMBELLIFEROUS    PLANTS.  253 

Har.  I  have  seen  them ;  but  I  want  to  know  the  plant. 

Geo.  Will  you  please  to  tell  us,  sir,  what  it  is  ? 

Tutor.  It  is  hemlock. 

Geo.  Hemlock  is  poison  is  it  not  ? 

Tut.  Yes,  in  some  degree;  and  it  is  also  a  medicine;  that  man  is 
gathering  it  for  the  apothecaries. 

Har.  I  should  like  to  know  it. 

Tut.  Well  then — go  and  bring  one. 

[Harry  fetches  it. 

Geo.  I  think  I  have  seen  a  great  many  of  this  sort. 

Tut.  Perhaps  you  may ;  but  there  are  many  other  kinds  of  plants 
extremely  like  it.  It  is  one  of  a  large  family  called  the  umbelliferous ', 
which  contains  both  food,  physic,  and  poison.  It  will  be  worth  while  for 
you  to  know  something  about  them,  so  let  us  examine  this  hemlock  closely. 
You  see  this  tall  hollow  stalk,  which  divides  into  several  branches,  from 
each  of  which  spring  spokes  or  rundles,  as  they  are  called,  of  flower- 
stalks.     You  see  they  are  like  rays  from  a  circle,  or  the  spokes  of  a  wheel. 

Har.  Or  like  the  sticks  of  an  umbrella. 

Tut.  True  ;  and  they  are  called  umbels,  which  has  the  same  derivation. 
If  you  pursue  one  of  these  rundles  or  umbels,  you  will  find  that  each  stick 
or  spoke  terminates  in  another  set  of  smaller  stalks,  each  of  which  bears 
a  single  small  flower. 

Geo.  They  are  small  ones,  indeed  ! 

Tut.  But  if  you  look  sharply,  I  dare  say  your  eyes  are  good  enough  to 
distinguish  that  they  are  divided  into  five  leaves,  and  furnished  with  five 
chives  and  two  pistils  in  the  middle. 

Har.  I  can  see  them. 

Geo.  And  so  can  I. 

Tut.  The  pistils  are  succeeded  by  a  sort  of  fruit,  which  is  a  twin-seed 
joined  in  the  middle,  as  you  may  see  in  this  rundle  that  is  past  flowering. 
Here  I  divide  one  of  them  into  two. 

Geo.  Would  each  of  these  grow  ? 

Tut.  Yes.  Well,  this  is  the  structure  of  the  flowering  part  of  the 
umbelliferous  tribe.    Now  for  the  leaf.     Pluck  one. 

Har.  Is  this  one  leaf,  or  many  ? 

Tut.  It  is  properly  one,  but  it  is  cut  and  divided  into  many  portions. 
From  this  mid-rib  spring  smaller  leaves  set  opposite  each  other ;  and  from 
the  rib  of  each  of  these  proceed  others,  which  themselves  are  also  divided. 


254  TWENTY-FIRST    EVENING. 

These  are  called  doubly  or  trebly  pinnated  leaves;  and  most  of  the 
umbelliferous  plants,  but  not  all,  have  leaves  of  this  kind. 

Har.  It  is  like  a  parsley-leaf. 

'Tut.  True — and  parsley  is  one  of  the  same  tribe,  and  hemlock  and 
others  are  sometimes  mistaken  for  it. 

Geo.  How  curiously  the  stalk  of  this  hemlock  is  spotted ! 

Tut.  Yes.  That  is  one  of  the  marks  by  which  it  is  known.  It  is  also 
distinguished  by  its  peculiar  smell,  and  by  other  circumstances  which  you 
can  only  understand  when  you  have  compared  a  number  of  the  tribe.  I 
will  now  tell  you  about  some  others,  the  names  of  which  you  are  probably 
acquainted  with.     In  the  first  place,  there  are  carrots  and  parsnips. 

Har.  Carrots  and  parsnips ! — they  are  not  poisons,  I  am  sure. 

Geo.  I  remember,  now,  that  carrots  have  such  a  leaf  as  this. 

Tut.  They  have.  It  is  the  roots  of  these,  you  know,  that  are  eaten. 
But  we  eat  the  leaves  of  parsley  and  fennel,  which  are  of  the  same  class. 
Celery  is  another,  the  stalks  of  which  are  chiefly  used,  made  white  by 
trenching  up  the  earth  about  them.  The  stalks  of  angelica  are  used 
differently. 

Har.  I  know  how — candied. 

Tut.  Yes.  Then  there  are  many  of  which  the  seeds  are  used.  There 
is  caraway. 

Har.  What,  the  seeds  that  are  put  into  cakes  and  comfits  ? 

Tut.  Yes.  They  are  warm  and  pungent  to  the  taste  ;  and  so  are  the 
seeds  of  many  others  of  the  umbelliferous  plants,  as  coriander,  fennel, 
wild  carrot,  angelica,  anise,  cummin,  and  dill.  All  these  are  employed 
in  food  or  medicine,  and  are  good  in  warming  or  strengthening  the  stomach. 

Har.  Those  are  pleasant  medicines  enough. 

Tut.  They  are  ;  but  you  will  not  say  the  same  of  some  others  of  the 
class,  which  are  noted  medicines  too  ;  such  as  the  plant  yielding  asafoetida, 
and  several  more,  from  which  what  are  called  the  fetid  gums  are  produced. 

Geo.  Asafcetida ! — that's  nasty  stuff,  I  know;  does  it  grow  here? 

Tut.  No ;  and  most  of  the  sweet  seeds  I  before  mentioned  come  from 
abroad  too.     Now  I  will  tell  you  of  some  of  the  poisons. 

Har.  Hemlock  is  one  that  we  know  already. 

Tut.  Yes.  Then  there  is  another  kind  that  grows  in  the  water,  and  is 
more  poisonous,  called  water-hemlock.  Another  is  a  large  plant  growing 
in  ditches,  with  leaves  extremely  like  celery,  called  hemlock-dropwort. 
Another,  common  in  drier  situations,  and  distinguished  by  leaves  less 


UMBELLIFEROUS    PLANTS.  255 

divided  than  most  of  the  class,  is  cow-parsnip,  or  madnep.  Of  some  of 
these  the  leaves,  of  others  the  root,  is  most  poisonous.  Their  effects  are 
to  make  the  head  giddy,  bring  on  stupidity  or  delirium,  and  cause  violent 
sickness.  The  Athenians  used  to  put  criminals  to  death  by  making  them 
drink  the  juice  of  a  kind  of  hemlock  growing  in  that  country,  as  you  may 
read  in  the  life  of  that  excellent  philosopher,  Socrates,  who  was  killed  in 
that  manner. 

Har.  What  was  he  killed  for  ? 

Tut.  Because  he  was  wiser  and  better  than  his  fellow-citizens.  Among 
us  it  is  only  by  accident  that  mischief  is  done  by  these  plants.  I  remember 
a  melancholy  instance  of  a  poor  boy,  who,  in  rambling  about  the  fields 
with  his  little  brothers  and  sisters,  chanced  to  meet  with  a  root  of  hemlock- 
dropwort.  It  looked  so  white  and  nice,  that  he  was  tempted  to  eat  a  good 
deal  of  it.  The  other  children  also  ate  some,  but  not  so  much.  When 
they  got  home  they  were  all  taken  very  ill.  The  eldest  boy,  who  had 
eaten  most,  died  in  great  agony.  The  others  recovered,  after  suffering  a 
great  deal. 

Geo.  Is  there  any  way  of  preventing  their  bad  effects  ? 

Tut.  The  best  way  is  to  clear  the  stomach  as  soon  as  possible  by  a 
strong  vomit  and  large  draughts  of  warm  water.  After  that,  vinegar  is 
useful  in  removing  the  disorder  of  the  head. 

Har.  But  are  the  roots  sweet  and  pleasant,  that  people  should  be  tempted 
to  eat  them? 

Tut.  Several  of  them  are.  There  is  a  small  plant  of  the  tribe,  the  root 
of  which  is  much  sought  after  by  boys,  who  dig  for  it  with  their  knives 
It  is  round,  and  called  earth-nut,  or  pig-nut. 

Geo,  But  that's  not  poison,  I  suppose  ? 

Tut.  No  ;  but  it  is  not  very  wholesome.  I  believe,  however,  that  the 
roots  of  the  most  poisonous  become  innocent  by  boiling.  I  have  heard 
that  boiled  hemlock  roots  are  as  good  as  carrots. 

Geo.  I  think  I  should  not  like  to  eat  them,  however.  But  pray,  why 
should  there  be  any  poisons  at  all  ? 

Tut,  What  we  call  poisons,  are  only  hurtful  to  particular  animals. 
They  are  the  proper  food  of  others,  and  no  doubt  do  more  good  than  hurt 
in  the  creation.  Most  of  the  things  that  are  poisonous  to  us  in  large 
quantities,  are  useful  medicines  in  small  ones ;  and  we  have  reason 
bestowed  upon  us,  to  guard  us  against  mischief.  Other  animals,  in  general, 
refuse  by  instinct  what  would  prove  hurtful  to  them.     You  see  beneath 


V 


256  TWENTY-FIRST    EVENING. 

yonder  hedge  a  great  crop  of  tall  flourishing  plants  with  white  flowers. 
They  are  of  the  umbelliferous  family,  and  are  called  wild  cicely,  or  cow- 
weed.  The  latter  name  is  given  them,  because  the  cows  will  not  touch 
them,  though  the  pasture  be  ever  so  bare. 

Har.  Would  they  poison  them? 

Tut.  Perhaps  they  would :  at  least  they  are  not  proper  food  for  them. 
We  will  go  and  examine  them,  and  I  will  show  you  how  they  differ  from 
hemlock,  for  which  they  are  sometimes  mistaken. 

Geo.  I  should  like  to  get  some  of  these  plants,  and  dry  them. 

Tut.  You  shall,  and  write  down  the  names  of  them  all,  and  learn  to 
know  the  innocent  from  the  hurtful. 

Geo.  That  will  be  very  useful. 

Tut.  It  will.  Remember  now  the  general  character  of  the  umbelliferous 
plants.  The  flower-stalks  are  divided  into  spokes  or  umbels,  which  are 
again  divided  into  others,  each  of  them  terminated  by  a  small,  five-leaved 
flower,  having  five  chives  and  two  pistils,  succeeded  by  a  twin-seed. 
Their  leaves  are  generally  finely  divided.  You  will  soon  know  them, 
after  having  examined  two  or  three  of  the  tribe.  Remember,  too,  that 
they  are  a  suspicious  race,  and  not  to  be  made  free  with  till  you  are  well 
acquainted  with  them. 


HUMBLE  LIFE;   OR,  THE  COTTAGERS. 
(Mr.  Everard  and  Charles,  walking  in  the  fields.) 

Mr.  EvERARn.  Well,  Charles,  you  seem  to  be  in  deep  meditation. 
Pray,  what  are  you  thinking  about? 

Charles.  I  was  thinking,  sir,  how  happy  it  is  for  us  that  we  are  not  in 
the  place  of  that  poor  weaver  whose  cottage  we  just  passed  by. 

Mr.  Ev.  It  is  very  right  to  be  sensible  of  all  the  advantages  that 
Providence  has  bestowed  upon  us  in  this  world,  and  I  commend  you  for 
reflecting  on  them  with  gratitude.  But  what  particular  circumstance  of 
comparison  between  our  condition  and  his  struck  you  most  just  now? 

Ch.  O,  almost  everything!  I  could  not  bear  to  live  in  such  a  poor 
house,  with  a  cold  clay  floor,  and  half  the  windows  stopped  with  paper. 
Then  how  poorly  he  and  his  children  are  dressed !  and  I  dare  say  they 
must  live  as  poorly  too. 

Mr.  Ev.  These  things  would  be  grievous  enough  to  you,  I  do  not  doubt, 
because  you  have  been  accustomed  to  a  very  different  way  of  living.    But 


HUMBLE    LIFE.  257 

H  they  are  healthy  and  contented,  I  don't  know  that  we  have  much 
more  to  boast  of.  I  believe  the  man  is  able  to  procure  wholesome  food 
for  his  family,  and  clothes  and  firing  enough  to  keep  them  from  suffering 
from  the  cold ;  and  nature  wants  little  more. 

Ch.  But,  what  a  ragged,  barefooted  fellow  the  boy  at  the  door  was! 

Mr.  Ev.  He  was — but  did  you  observe  his  ruddy  cheeks,  and  his  stout 
legs,  and  the  smiling  grin  upon  his  countenance?  It  is  my  opinion  he 
would  beat  you  in  running,  though  he  is  half  the  head  less  ;  and  I  dare 
say  he  never  cried  because  he  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  himself,  in 
his  life. 

Ch.  But,  sir,  you  have  often  told  me  that  the  mind  is  the  noblest  part 
of  man ;  and  these  poor  creatures,  I  am  sure,  can  have  no  opportunity  to 
improve  their  minds.     They  must  be  as  ignorant  as  the  brutes,  almost. 

Mr.  Ev.  Why  so  ?  Do  you  think  there  is  no  knowledge  to  be  got  but 
from  books;  or  that  a  weaver  cannot  teach  his  children  right  from  wrong? 

Ch.  Not  if  he  has  never  learned  himself. 

Mr.  Ev.  True — but  I  hope  the  country  we  live  in  is  not  so  unfriendly 
to  a  poor  man,  as  to  afford  him  no  opportunity  of  learning  his  duty  to  God 
and  his  neighbour.  And  as  to  other  points  of  knowledge,  necessity  and 
common  observation  will  teach  him  a  good  deal.  But  come — let  us  go 
and  pay  him  a  visit,  for  I  doubt  you  hardly  think  them  human  creatures. 

\They  enter  the  cottage — Jacob,  the  weaver,  at  his  loom.    His  wife 
spinning.     Children  of  different  ages.~\ 

Mr.  Ev.  Good  morning  to  you,  friend  !  Do  n't  let  us  disturb  you  all, 
pray.     We  have  just  stepped  in  to  look  at  your  work. 

Jacob.  I  have  very  little  to  show  you,  gentlemen;  but  you  are  welcome 
to  look  on.     Perhaps  the  young  gentleman  never  saw  weaving  before. 

Ch.  I  never  did,  near. 

Jac.  Look  here,  then,  master.  These  long  threads  are  the  warp.  They 
are  divided,  you  see,  into  two  sets,  and  I  pass  my  shuttle  between  them, 
which  carries  with  it  the  cross  threads,  and  that  makes  the  weft.  {Ex- 
plains the  whole  to  him.) 

Ch.  Dear!  how  curious!   And  is  all  cloth  made  this  way,  papa? 

Mr.  Ev.  Yes ;  only  there  are  somewhat  different  contrivances  for 
different  kinds  of  work.  Well,  how  soon  do  you  think  you  could  learn  to 
weave  like  this  honest  man  ? 

Ch.  O — not  for  a  great  whil^  ? 


/ 


258  TWENTY-FIRST    EVENING. 

Mr.  Ev.  But  I  suppose  you  could  easily  turn  the  wheel,  and  draw  out 
threads  like  that  good  woman  ? 

Ch.  Not  without  some  practice,  I  fancy.     But  what  is  that  boy  doing? 

Jac.  He  is  cutting  pegs  for  the  shoemakers,  master.      ^ 

Ch.  How  quick  he  does  them  ! 

Jac.  It  is  but  poor  employment,  but  better  than  being  idle.  The  first 
lesson  I  teach  my  children  is,  that  their  hands  were  made  to  get  their 
bread  with. 

Mr.  Ev.  And  a  very  good  lesson,  too. 

Ch.  What  is  this  heap  of  twigs  for? 

Jac.  Why,  master,  my  biggest  boy  and  girl  have  learned  a  little  how 
to  make  basket-work,  so  I  have  got  them  a  few  osiers  to  employ  them  at 
leisure  hours.  That  bird-cage  is  their  making:  and  the  back  of  that 
chair  in  which  their  grandmother  sits. 

Ch.  Is  not  that  cleverly  done,  papa? 

Mr.  Ev.  It  is,  indeed.  Here  are  several  arts,  you  see,  in  this  house, 
which  both  you  and  I  should  be  much  puzzled  to  set  about.  But  there 
are  some  books,  too,  I  perceive. 

Ch.  Here  is  a  bible,  and  a  testament,  and  a  prayer-book,  and  a  spelling 
book,  and  a  volume  of  the  Gardener's  Dictionary. 

Mr.  Ev.  And  how  many  of  your  family  can  read,  my  friend  ? 

Jac.  All  the  children  but  the  two  youngest  can  read  a  little,  sir;  but 
Meg,  there,  is  the  best  scholar  among  us.  She  reads  us  a  chapter  in  the 
Testament  every  morning,  and  very  well,  too,  though  I  say  it. 

Mr.  Ev.  Do'you  hear  that,  Charles? 

Ch.  I  do,  sir.  Here  's  an  almanac,  too,  against  the  wall ;  and  here 
are  my  favourite  ballads  of  the  Children  in  the  Wood,  and  Chevy-chase. 

Jac.  I  let  the  children  paste  them  up,  sir,  and  a  few  more  that  have  no 
harm  in  them.  There 's  Hearts  of  Oak,  and  Rule  Britannia,  and  Robin 
Gray. 

Mr.  Ev.  A  very  good  choice,  indeed.  I  see  you  have  a  pretty  garden 
there  behind  the  house. 

Jac.  It  is  only  a  little  spot,  sir ;  but  it  serves  for  some  amusement,  and 
use  too. 

Ch.  What  beautiful  stocks  and  wall-flowers !  We  have  none  so  fine 
in  our  garden. 

Jac.  Why,  master,  to  say  the  truth,  we  are  rather  proud  of  them.  I 
have  got  a  way  of  cultivating  them,  that  I  believe  few  besides  myself  are 


HUMBLE    LIFE.  259 

acquainted  with ;  and  on  Sundays  I  have  plenty  of  visiters  to  come  and 
admire  them. 

Ch.  Pray,  what  is  this  bush  with  narrow  whitish  leaves  and  blue 
flowers  ? 

Jac.  Do  n't  you  know  1    It  is  rosemary. 

Ch.  Is  it  good  for  anything  ? 

Jac.  We  like  the  smell  of  it ;  and  then  the  leaves,  mixed  with  a  little 
balm,  make  pleasant  tea,  which  we  sometimes  drink  in  the  afternoon. 

Ch.  Here  are  several  more  plants  that  I  never  saw  before. 

Jac.  Some  of  them  are  pot-herbs,  that  we  put  into  our  broth  or  porridge  ; 
and  others  are  physic  herbs,  for  we  cannot  afford  to  go  to  a  doctor  for  every 
trifling  ailment. 

Ch.  But  how  do  you  learn  the  use  of  these  things  ? 

Jac.  Why,  partly,  master,  from  an  old  herbal  that  I  have  got ;  and 
partly  from  my  good  mother  and  some  old  neighbours  ;  for  we  poor  people 
are  obliged  to  help  one  another  as  well  as  we  can.  If  you  were  curious 
about  plants,  I  could  go  into  the  fields,  and  show  you  a  great  many  that 
we  reckon  very  fine  for  several  uses,  though  I  suppose  we  don't  call  them 
by  the  proper  names. 

Mr.  Ev.  You  keep  your  garden  very  neat,  friend,  and  seem  to  make  the 
most  of  every  inch  of  ground. 

Jac.  Why,  sir,  we  have  hands  enough,  and  all  of  us  like  to  be  doing  a 
little  in  it  when  our  in-doors  work  is  over.  I  am  in  hopes  soon  to  be 
allowed  a  bit  of  land  from  the  waste  for  a  potato-ground,  which  will  be  a 
great  help  to  us.     I  shall  then  be  able  to  keep  a  pig. 

Mr.  Ev.  I  suppose,  notwithstanding  your  industry,  you  live  rather  hardly 
sometimes  ? 

Jac.  To  be  sure,  sir,  we  are  somewhat  pinched  in  dear  times  and  hard 
weather ;  but,  thank  God,  I  have  constant  work,  and  my  children  begin 
to  be  some  help  to  us,  so  that  we  fare  better  than  some  of  our  neighbours. 
If  I  do  but  keep  my  health,  I  don't  fear  but  we  shall  make  a  shift  to  live. 

Mr.  Ev.  Keep  such  a  contented  mind,  my  friend,  and  you  will  have  few 
to  envy.  Good  morning  to  you,  and  if  any  sickness  or  accident  should 
befall  you,  remember  you  have  a  friend  in  your  neighbour  at  the  hall 

Jac.  I  will,  sir,  and  thank  you. 

Ch.  Good  morning  to  you. 

Jac.  The  same  to  you,  master.  [They  leave  the  cottage. 

Mr,  Ev.  Well,  Charles,  what  do  you  think  of  our  visit  ? 


X 


260  TWENTY-FIRST    EVENING. 

Ch.  I  am  highly  pleased  with  it,  sir.  I  shall  have  a  better  opinion  of 
a  poor  cottager  as  long  as  I  live. 

Mr.  Ev.  I  am  glad  of  it.  You  see  when  we  compare  ourselves  with 
this  weaver,  all  the  advantage  is  not  on  our  side.  He  is  possessed  of  an 
art,  the  utility  of  which  secures  him  a  livelihood,  whatever  may  be  the 
changes  of  the  times.  All  his  family  are  brought  up  to  industry,  and 
show  no  small  ingenuity  in  their  several  occupations.  They  are  not 
without  instruction,  and  especially  seem  to  be  in  no  want  of  that  best  of 
all,  the  knowledge  of  their  duty.  They  understand  something  of  the 
cultivation  and  uses  of  plants,  and  are  capable  of  receiving  enjoyment 
from  the  beauties  of  nature.  They  partake  of  the  pleasures  of  home  and 
neighbourhood.  Above  all  they  seem  content  with  their  lot,  and  free 
from  anxious  cares  and  repinings.  I  view  them  as  truly  respectable 
members  of  society,  acting  well  the  part  allotted  to  them,  and  that,  a  part 
most  of  all  necessary  to  the  well-being  of  the  whole.  They  may,  from 
untoward  accidents,  be  rendered  objects  of  our  compassion,  but  they  never 
can  of  our  contempt. 

Ch.  Indeed,  sir,  I  am  very  far  from  despising  them  now.  But  would 
it  not  be  possible  to  make  them  more  comfortable  than  they  are  at  present? 

Mr.  Ev.  I  think  it  would  ;  and  when  giving  a  little  from  the  superfluity 
of  persons  in  our  situation  would  add  so  much  to  the  happiness  of  persons 
in  theirs,  I  am  of  opinion  that  it  is  unpardonable  not  to  do  it.  I  intend  to 
use  my  interest  to  get  this  poor  man  the  piece  of  waste  land  he  wants, 
and  he  shall  have  some  from  my  share  rather  than  go  without. 

Ch.  And  suppose,  sir,  we  were  to  give  him  some  good  potatoes  to 
plant  it  ? 

Mr.  Ev.  We  will.  Then,  you  know,  we  have  a  fine  sow,  that  never 
fails  to  produce  a  numerous  litter  twice  a  year.  Suppose  we  rear  one  of 
the  next  brood  to  be  ready  for  him  as  soon  as  he  has  got  his  potato-ground 
into  bearing  ? 

Ch.  O  yes  !  that  will  be  just  the  thing.  But  how  is  he  to  build  a 
pigsty  ? 

Mr.  Ev.  You  may  leave  that  to  his  own  ingenuity  !  I  warrant  he  can 
manage  such  a  job  as  that  with  the  help  of  a  neighbour,  at  least.  Well — 
I  hope  both  the  weaver,  and  you,  will  be  the  better  for  the  acquaintance 
we  have  made  to-day  ;  and  always  remember,  that  man,  when  fulfilling 
the  duties  of  his  station,  be  that  station  what  it  may,  is  a  worthy  object 
of  respect  to  his  fellow-men. 


EVENING  XXII. 


THE  BIRTHDAY  GIFT. 

The  populous  kingdom  of  Ava,  in  India  beyond  the  Ganges,  was  once 
inherited  by  a  minor  prince,  who  was  brought  up  in  the  luxurious  indolence 
of  an  eastern  palace.  When  he  had  reached  the  age  of  seventeen,  which 
by  the  laws  of  that  country,  was  the  period  of  majority  for  the  crown,  all 
the  great  men  of  his  court,  and  the  governors  of  the  provinces,  according 
to  established  custom,  laid  at  his  feet  presents  consisting  of  the  most 
costly  products  of  nature  and  art  that  they  had  been  able  to  procure. 
One  offered  a  casket  of  the  most  precious  jewels  of  Golconda  ;  another  a 

961 


262  TWENTY-SECOND    EVENING. 

curious  piece  of  clockwork  made  by  a  European  artist;  another,  a  piece 
of  the  richest  silk  from  the  looms  of  China  ;  another,  a  bezoar  stone  said 
to  be  a  sovereign  antidote  against  all  poisons  and  infectious  diseases  ; 
another,  a  choice  piece  of  the  most  fragrant  rose-wood,  in  a  box  of  ebony- 
inlaid  with  pearls ;  another,  a  golden  cruse  full  of  genuine  balsam  of 
Mecca  ;  another,  a  courser  of  the  purest  breed  of  Arabia ;  and  another,  a 
female  slave  of  exquisite  beauty.  The  whole  court  of  the  palace  was 
overspread  with  rarities ;  and  long  rows  of  slaves  were  continually  passing 
loaded  with  vessels  and  utensils  of  gold  and  silver,  and  other  articles  of 
high  price. 

At  length,  an  aged  magistrate  from  a  distant  province  made  his 
appearance.  He  was  simply  clad  in  a  long  cotton  robe,  and  his  hoary 
beard  waved  on  his  breast.  He  made  his  obeisance  before  the  young 
monarch,  and  holding  forth  an  embroidered  silken  bag,  he  thus  addressed 
him : — 

"  Deign,  great  king,  to  accept  the  faithful  homage  and  fervent  good 
wishes  of  thy  servant  on  this  important  day,  and  with  them  the  small 
present  I  hold  in  my  hand.  Small,  indeed,  it  is  in  show,  but  not  so,  I 
trust,  in  s*alue.  Others  have  offered  what  may  decorate  thy  person — here 
is  what  will  impart  perpetual  grace  and  lustre  to  thy  features.  Others 
have  presented  thee  with  rich  perfumes — here  is  what  will  make  thy 
name  sweet  and  fragrant  to  the  latest  ages.  Others  have  given  what  may 
afford  pleasure  to  thine  eyes — here  is  what  will  nourish  a  source  of 
never-failing  pleasure  within  thy  breast.  Others  have  furnished  thee  with 
preservatives  against  bodily  contagion — here  is  what  will  preserve  thy 
better  parts  uncontaminated.  Others  have  heaped  round  thee  the  riches 
of  a  temporal  kingdom — this  will  secure  thee  the  treasures  of  an  eternal 
one." 

He  said,  and  drew  from  the  purse  a  book,  containing  the  moral  precepts 
of  the  sage  Zendar,  the  wisest  and  most  virtuous  man  the  East  had  ever 
beheld.  "  If,"  he  proceeded,  "  my  gracious  sovereign  will  condescend  to 
make  this  his  constant  companion,  not  an  hour  can  pass  in  which  its 
perusal  may  not  be  a  comfort  and  a  blessing.  In  the  arduous  duties  of 
thy  station  it  will  prove  a  faithful  guide  and  counsellor.  Amid  the 
allurements  of  pleasure  and  the  incitements  of  passion,  it  will  be  an 
incorruptible  monitor,  that  will  never  suffer  thee  to  err  without  warning 
thee  of  thy  error.  It  will  render  thee  a  blessing  to  thy  people,  and  blessed 
in  thyself:  for  what  sovereign  can  be  the  one  without  the  other?" 


ON  EARTHS  AND  STONES.  263 

He  then  returned  the  book  to  its  place,  and  kneeling,  gave  it  into  the 
hands  of  the  king.  He  received  it  with  respect  and  benignity,  and 
history  affirms  that  the  use  he  made  of  it  corresponded  with  the  wishes 
of  the  donor.  \ 


ON  EARTHS  AND  STONES 
Tutor —  George — Harry. 

Harry.  I  wonder  what  all  this  heap  of  stones  is  for  ? 

George.  I  can  tell  you — it  is  for  the  lime-kiln  j  don't  you  see  it  just  by  ? 

Har.  O  yes,  I  do.    But  what  is  to  be  done  to  them  there  ? 

Geo.  Why,  they  are  to  be  burnt  into  lime ;  don't  you  know  that? 

Har.  But  what  is  lime,  and  what  are  its  uses  ? 

Geo.  I  can  tell  you  one ;  they  lay  it  on  the  fields  for  manure.  Do  n't 
you  remember  we  saw  a  number  of  little  heaps  of  it,  that  we  took  for 
sheep  at  a  distance,  and  wondered  they  did  not  move  ?  However,  I 
believe  we  had  better  ask  our  tutor  about  it.  Will  you  please,  sir,  to  tell 
us  something  about  lime  ? 

Tutor.  Willingly.  But  suppose,  as  we  talked  about  all  sorts  of  metals 
some  time  ago,  I  should  now  give  you  a  lecture  about  stones  and  earths  of 
all  kinds,  which  are  equally  valuable,  and  much  more  common  than  metals. 

Geo.  Pray,  do,  sir. 

Har.  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  hear  it. 

Tut.  Well,  then.  In  the  first  place,  the  ground  we  tread  upon,  to  as 
great  a  depth  as  it  has  been  dug,  consists  for  the  most  part  of  matter  of 
various  appearance  and  hardness,  called  by  the  general  name  of  earths. 
In  common  language,  indeed,  only  the  soft  and  powdery  substances  are 
so  named,  while  the  hard  and  solid  are  called  stone  or  rock;  but  chymists 
use  the  same  term  for  all;  as,  in  fact,  earth  is  only  crumbled  stone,  and 
stone  only  consolidated  earth. 

Har.  What ! — has  the  mould  of  my  garden  ever  been  stone? 

Tut.  The  black  earth  or  mould  which  covers  the  surface  wherever 
plants  grow,  consists  mostly  of  parts  of  rotted  vegetables,  such  as  stalks, 
leaves,  and  roots,  mixed  with  sand  or  loose  clay ;  but  this  only  reaches  a 
little  way ;  and  beneath  it  you  always  come  to  a  bed  of  gravel,  or  clay,  or 
stone  of  some  kind.  Now  these  eaiths  and  stones  are  distinguished  into 
several  species,  but  principally  into  three,  the  properties  of  which  make 
them  useful  to  man  for  very  different  purposes,  and  are,  therefore,  very 


264  TWENTY-SECOND    EVENING. 

weL  worth  knowing.  As  you  began  with  asking  me  about  lime,  I  shall 
first  mention  that  class  of  earths  from  which  it  is  obtained.  These  have 
derived  their  name  of  calcareous  from  this  very  circumstance,  calx  being 
lime,  in  Latin ;  and  lime  is  got  from  them  all  in  the  same  way,  by  burning 
them  in  a  strong  fire.  There  are  many  kinds  of  calcareous  earths.  One 
of  them  is  marble  ;  you  know  what  that  is  ? 

Geo.  O  yes  !     Our  parlour  chimney-piece  and  hearth  are  marble. 

Har.  And  so  are  the  monuments  in  the  church. 

Tut.  True.  There  are  various  kinds  of  it :  white,  black,  yellow,  gray, 
mottled  and  veined  with  different  colours ;  but  all  of  them  are  hard  and 
heavy  stones,  admitting  a  fine  polish,  on  which  account  they  are  much 
used  in  ornamental  works. 

Geo.  I  think  statues  are  made  of  it  ? 

Tut.  Yes ;  and  where  it  is  plentiful,  columns,  and  porticoes,  and 
sometimes  whole  buildings.     Marble  is  the  luxury  of  architecture. 

Har.  Where  does  marble  come  from  ? 

Tut.  From  a  great  many  countries.  Great  Britain  produces  some,  but 
mostly  of  inferior  kinds.  What  we  use  chiefly  comes  from  Italy.  The 
Greek  islands  yield  some  fine  sorts.  That  of  Paros  is  of  ancient  fame  for 
whiteness  and  purity,  and  the  finest  antique  statues  have  been  made  of 
Parian  marble. 

Har.  I  suppose  black  marble  will  not  burn  into  white  lime  ? 

Tut.  Yes,  it  will.  A  violent  heat  will  expel  most  of  the  colouring 
matter  of  marbles,  and  make  them  white.  Chalk  is  another  kind  of 
calcareous  earth.  This  is  of  a  much  softer  consistence  than  marble ; 
being  easily  cut  with  a  knife,  and  marking  things  on  which  it  is  rubbed. 
It  is  found  in  great  beds  in  the  earth ;  and  in  some  parts  of  England 
whole  hills  are  composed  of  it. 

Geo.  Are  chalk  and  whiting  the  same  ? 

Tut.  Whiting  is  made  of  the  finer  and  purer  particles  of  chalk  washed 
out  from  the  rest,  and  then  dried  in  lumps.  This  you  know  is  quite  soft 
and  crumbly.  There  are,  besides,  a  great  variety  of  stones  in  the  earth 
harder  than  chalk,  but  softer  than  marble,  which  will  burn  to  lime,  and  are 
therefore  called  limestones.  These  differ  much  in  colour  and  other  prop- 
erties, and  accordingly  furnish  lime  of  different  qualities.  Whole  ridges  of 
mountains  in  various  parts  are  composed  of  lime-stone,  and  it  is  found 
plentifully  in  most  of  the  hilly  counties  of  England,  to  the  great  advantage 
of  the  inhabitants. 


ON  EARTHS  AND  STONES.  265 

Geo.  Will  not  oyster-shells  burn  into  lime  ?  I  think  I  have  heard  of 
oyster-shell  lime. 

Tut.  They  will ;  and  this  is  another  source  of  calcareous  earth.  The 
shells  of  all  animals,  both  land  and  sea,  as  oysters,  mussels,  cockles,  crabs, 
lobsters,  snails,  and  the  like,  and  also  egg-shells  of  all  kinds,  consist  of 
this  earth ;  and  so  does  coral,  which  is  formed  by  insects  under  the  sea, 
and  is  very  abundant  in  some  countries.  Vast  quantities  of  shells  are 
often  found  deep  in  the  earth,  in  the  midst  of  chalk  and  lime-stone  beds ; 
whence  some  have  supposed  that  all  calcareous  earth  is  originally  an 
animal  production. 

Har.  But  where  could  animals  enough  ever  have  lived  to  make  mount- 
ains of  their  shells  ? 

Tut.  That,  indeed,  I  cannot  answer.  But  there  are  sufficient  proofs 
that  our  world  must  long  have  existed  in  a  very  different  state  from  the 
present.  Well — but  besides  these  purer  calcareous  earths,  it  is  very 
frequently  found  mingled  in  different  proportions  with  other  earths.  Thus 
marl,  which  is  so  much  used  in  manuring  land,  and  of  which  there  are  a 
great  many  kinds,  consists  of  calcareous  earth,  united  with  clay  and  sand ; 
and  the  more  of  this  earth  it  contains,  the  richer  manure  it  generally  makes. 

Geo.  Is  there  any  way  of  discovering  it  when  it  is  mixed  in  this  manner 
with  other  things  ? 

Tut.  Yes — there  is  an  easy  and  sure  method  of  discovering  the  smallest 
portion  of  it.  All  the  varieties  of  calcareous  earth  that  I  have  mentioned 
have  the  property  of  dissolving  in  acids,  and  effervescing  with  them  ;  that 
is,  they  bubble  and  hiss  when  acids  are  poured  upon  them.  You  may 
readily  try  this  at  any  time  with  a  piece  of  chalk  or  an  oyster-shell. 

Geo.  I  will  pour  some  vinegar  upon  an  oyster-shell  as  soon  as  I  get 
home.  But  now  I  think  of  it,  I  have  often  done  so  in  eating  oysters,  and 
I  never  observed  it  to  hiss  or  bubble. 

Tut.  Vinegar  is  not  an  acid  strong  enough  to  act  upon  a  thing  so  solid 
as  a  shell.  But  sulphuric  and  muriatic  acids  will  do  it  at  once ;  and 
persons  who  examine  the  nature  of  fossils  always  travel  with  a  bottle  of 
one  of  these  acids,  by  way  of  a  test  of  calcareous  earth.  Your  vinegar 
will  answer  with  chalk  or  whiting.  This  property  of  dissolving  in  acids, 
and  what  is  called  neutralizing  them,  or  taking  away  their  sourness,  has 
caused  many  of  the  calcareous  earths  to  be  used  in  medicine.  You  know 
that  sometimes  our  food  turns  very  sour  upon  the  stomach,  and  occasions 
the  pain  called  heart-burn,  and  other  uneasy  symptoms.     In  these  cases  it 

12 


266  TWENTY-SECOND    EVENING. 

is  common  to  give  chalk  or  powdered  shells,  or  other  things  of  this  kind, 
which  afford  relief,  by  neutralizing  the  acid. 

Geo.  I  suppose,  then,  magnesia  is  something  of  this  sort,  for  I  have 
often  seen  it  given  to  my  little  sister,  when  they  said  her  stomach  was  out 
of  order  ? 

Tut.  It  is ;  but  though  magnesia  has  some  properties  in  common  with 
calcareous  earths,  it  possesses  others  that  are  peculiar  to  itself. 

Geo.  Pray,  what  are  the  other  uses  of  these  earths? 

Tut.  Such  of  them  as  are  hard  stone,  as  the  marbles  and  many  of  the 
lime-stones,  are  used  for  the  same  purposes  as  other  stones.  But  their 
great  use  is  in  the  form  of  lime,  which  is  a  substance  of  many  curious 
properties  that  I  will  now  explain  to  you.  When  fresh  burnt  it  is  called 
quicklime,  on  account  of  the  heat  and  life,  as  it  were,  which  it  possesses. 
Have  you  ever  seen  a  lump  put  into  water  ? 

Geo.  Yes,  I  have. 

Tut.  Were  you  not  much  surprised  to  see  it  swell  and  crack  to  pieces, 
with  a  hissing  noise  and  a  great  smoke  and  heat  ? 

Geo.  I  was,  indeed.  But  what  is  the  cause  of  this — how  can  cold 
water  occasion  so  much  heat  ? 

Tut.  I  will  tell  you.  The  strong  heat  to  which  calcareous  earth  is 
exposed  in  making  it  lime  expels  all  the  water  it  contained,  (for  all  earths, 
as  well  as  almost  everything  else,  naturally  contain  water,)  and  also  a 
quantity  of  a  peculiar  kind  of  air  which  was  united  with  it.  If  water  be 
now  added  to  this  quicklime,  it  is  drunk  in  again  with  such  rapidity,  as  to 
crack  and  break  the  lime  to  pieces.  At  the  same  time  a  great  heat  is 
occasioned  by  the  water  combining  with  the  lime,  and  this  makes  itself 
sensible  by  its  effects,  burning  all  the  things  that  it  touches,  and  turning 
part  of  the  water  to  steam.  This  operation  is  called  slacking  of  lime. 
The  water  in  which  lime  is  slacked  dissolves  a  part  of  it,  and  acquires  a 
very  pungent  harsh  taste :  this  is  used  in  medicine  under  the  name  of 
lime-water.  If  instead  of  soaking  quicklime  in  water,  it  is  exposed  for 
sometime  to  the  air,  it  attracts  moisture  slowly,  and  by  degrees  falls  to 
powder,  without  much  heat  or  disturbance.  But  whether  lime  be  slacked 
in  water  or  air,  it  does  not  at  first  return  to  the  state  in  which  it  was  before, 
since  it  still  remains  deprived  of  its  air,  and  on  that  account  is  still  pungent 
and  caustic.  At  length,  however,  it  recovers  this  also  from  the  atmosphere, 
and  is  then  mild  calcareous  earth  as  at  first.  Now  it  is  upon  some  of  these 
circumstances  that  the  utility  of  lime  depends.     In  the  first  place,  its 


ON  EARTHS  AND  STONES.  267 

burning  and  corroding  quality  makes  it  useful  to  the  tanner,  in  loosening 
all  the  hair  from  the  hides,  and  destroying  the  flesh  and  fat  that  adhered 
to  them.  And  so  in  various  other  trades  it  is  used  as  a  great  cleanser  and 
purifier. 

Har.  I  have  a  thought  come  into  my  head.  When  it  is  laid  upon  the 
ground,  I  suppose  its  use  must  be  to  burn  up  the  weeds  ? 

Tut.  True — that  is  part  of  its  use. 

Geo.  But  it  must  burn  up  the  good  grass  and  corn  too  ? 

Tut.  Properly  objected.  But  the  case  is,  that  the  farmer  does  not  sow 
his  seeds  till  the  lime  is  rendered  mild  by  exposure  to  the  air  and  weather, 
and  is  well  mixed  with  the  soil.  And  even  then  it  is  reckoned  a  hot  and 
forcing  manure,  chiefly  fit  for  cold  and  wet  lands.  The  principal  use  of 
lime,  however,  is  as  an  ingredient  in  mortar.  This,  you  know,  is  the 
cement  by  which  bricks  and  stones  are  held  together  in  building.  It  is 
made  of  fresh  slacked  lime  and  a  proportion  of  sand  well  mixed  together ; 
and,  when  used  for  plastering  walls,  some  chopped  hair  is  put  into  it. 
The  lime  binds  with  the  other  ingredients ;  and  in  length  of  time,  the 
mortar,  if  well  made,  becomes  as  hard,  or  harder,  than  stone  itself. 

Geo.  I  have  heard  of  the  mortar  in  very  old  buildings  being  harder  and 
stronger  than  any  made  at  present. 

Tut.  That  is  only  on  account  of  its  age.  Burning  lime  and  making 
mortar  are  as  well  understood  now  as  ever:  but  in  order  to  have  it  excellent, 
the  lime  should  be  of  a  good  quality,  and  thoroughly  burnt.  Some  sorts 
of  lime  have  the  property  of  making  mortar  which  will  harden  under 
water,  whence  it  is  much  valued  for  bridges,  locks,  wharfs,  and  the  like. 

Geo.  Pray,  is  not  plaster  of  Paris  a  kind  of  lime  ?  I  know  it  will 
become  hard  by  only  mixing  water  with  it,  for  I  have  used  it  to  make 
casts  of. 

Tut.  The  powder  you  call  plaster  of  Paris  is  made  of  an  earth  named 
gypsum^  of  which  there  are  several  kinds.  Alabaster  is  a  stone  of  this 
sort,  and  hard  enough  to  be  used  like  marble.  The  gypseous  earths  are 
of  the  calcareous  kind,  but  they  have  naturally  a  portion  of  acid  united 
with  them,  whence  they  will  not  effervesce  on  having  acid  poured  on  them. 
But  they  are  distinguished  by  the  property,  that  after  being  calcined  or 
burnt  in  the  fire,  and  reduced  to  powder,  they  will  set  into  a  solid  body 
by  the  addition  of  water  alone.  This  makes  them  very  useful  for  orna- 
mental plasters,  that  are  to  receive  a  form  or  impression,  such  as  the  stucco 
for  the  ceiling  of  rooms. 


268  TWENTY-SECOND    EVENING. 

Well — we  have  said  enough  about  calcareous  earths ;  now  to  another 
class,  the  argillaceous, 

Geo.  I  think  I  know  what  those  are.    Argilla  is  Latin  for  clay. 

Tut.  True  ;  and  they  are  also  called  clayey  earths.  In  general,  these 
earths  are  of  a  soft  texture  and  a  sort  of  greasy  feel ;  but  they  are  peculi- 
arly distinguished  by  the  property  of  becoming  sticky  on  being  tempered 
with  water,  so  that  they  may  be  drawn  out  and  worked  into  form  like  a 
paste.     Have  you  ever,  when  you  were  a  little  boy,  made  a  clay-house  ? 

Geo.  Yes,  I  have. 

Tut.  Then  you  well  know  the  manner  in  which  clay  is  tempered,  and 
worked  for  this  purpose  ? 

Har.  Yes — and  I  remember  helping  to  make  little  pots  and  mugs  of 
clay. 

Tut.  Then  you  imitated  the  potter's  trade ;  for  all  utensils  of  earthen- 
ware are  made  of  clays  either  pure  or  mixed.  This  is  one  of  the  oldest 
arts  among  mankind,  and  one  of  the  most  useful.  They  furnish  materials 
for  building,  too  ;  for  bricks  and  tiles  are  made  of  these  earths.  But  in 
order  to  be  fit  for  these  purposes,  it  is  necessary  that  clay  should  not  only 
be  soft  and  ductile  while  it  is  forming,  but  capable  of  being  hardened 
afterward ;  and  this  it  is,  by  the  assistance  of  fire.  Pottery-ware  and 
bricks  are  burnt  with  a  strong  heat  in  kilns,  by  which  they  acquire  a 
hardness  equal  to  that  of  the  hardest  stone. 

Geo.  I  think  I  have  heard  of  bricks  being  baked  by  the  sun's  heat  alone 
in  very  hot  countries. 

Tut.  True ;  and  they  may  serve  for  building  in  climates  where  rain 
scarcely  ever  falls ;  but  heavy  showers  would  wash  them  away.  Fire 
seems  to  change  the  nature  of  clays  ;  for  after  they  have  undergone  its 
operation,  they  become  incapable  of  returning  of  themselves  to  a  soft  and 
ductile  state.  You  might  steep  brick-dust  or  pounded  pots  in  water  ever 
so  long  without  making  it  hold  together  in  the  least. 

Geo.  I  suppose  there  are  many  kinds  of  clays? 

Tut.  There  are.  Argillaceous  earths  differ  greatly  from  each  other  in 
colour,  purity,  and  other  qualities.  Some  are  perfectly  white,  as  that  of 
which  tobacco-pipes  are  made.  Others  are  blue,  brown,  yellow,  and  in 
short  of  all  hues,  which  they  owe  to  mixtures  of  decaying  vegetable  sub- 
stances or  metals.  Those  which  burn  red  contain  a  portion  of  iron.  No 
clays  are  found  perfectly  pure ;  but  they  are  mixed  with  more  or  less  of 
other  earths.     The  common  brick-clays  contain  a  large  proportion  of  sand, 


ON  EARTHS  AND  STONES.  269 

which  often  makes  them  crumbly  and  perishable.  In  general,  the  finest 
earthenware  is  made  of  the  purest  and  whitest  clays  ;  but  other  matters 
are  mixed  in  order  to  harden  and  strengthen  them.  Thus  porcelain  or 
china  is  made  with  a  clayey  earth  mixed  with  a  stone  of  vitrifiable  nature, 
that  is,  which  may  be  melted  into  glass ;  and  the  fine  pottery  called 
queen's  ware  is  a  mixture  of.  tobacco-pipe  clay,  and  flints  burnt  and 
powdered.  Common  stone  ware  is  a  coarse  mixture  of  this  sort.  Some 
species  of  pottery  are  made  with  mixtures  of  burnt  and  unburnt  clay ; 
the  former  I  told  you  before,  being  incapable  of  becoming  soft  again  with 
water  like  a  natural  clay. 

Har.  Are  clays  of  no  other  use  than  to  make  pottery  of? 

Tut.  Yes,  the  richest  soils  are  those  which  have  a  proportion  of  clay ; 
and  marl,  which  I  have  already  mentioned  as  a  manure,  generally  con- 
tains a  good  deal  of  it.  Then  clay  has  &e  property  of  absorbing  oil  or 
grease,  whence  some  kinds  of  it  are  used  like  soap  for  cleaning  clothes. 
The  substance  called  fullers'  earth  is  a  mixed  earth  of  the  argillaceous 
kind ;  and  its  use  in  taking  out  the  oil  which  naturally  adheres  to  wool 
is  so  great,  that  it  has  been  one  cause  of  the  superiority  of  our  woollen 
cloths. 

Har.  Then  I  suppose  it  is  found  in  England  ? 

Tut.  Yes.  There  are  pits  of  the  best  kind  of  it  near  Woburn  in  Bed- 
fordshire, and  Nutfield  in  Surrey,  England.  The  different  kinds  of  slate, 
too,  are  stones  of  the  argillaceous  class ;  and  very  useful  ones,  for  covering 
houses,  and  other  purposes. 

Har.  Are  writing  slates  like  the  slates  used  for  covering  houses  ? 

Tut.  Yes;  but  their  superior  blackness  and  smoothness  make  them 
show  better  the  marks  of  the  pencil. 

Geo.  You  have  mentioned  something  of  sand  and  flints,  but  you  have 
not  told  us  what  sort  of  earths  they  are. 

Tut.  I  reserved  that  till  I  spoke  of  the  third  great  class  of  earths.  This 
is  the  siliceous  class,  so  named  from  silex,  which  is  Latin  for  a  flint-stone. 
They  have  also  been  called  vitrifiable  earths,  because  they  are  the  prin- 
cipal ingredient  in  glass,  named  in  Latin  vitrum. 

Geo.  I  have  heard  of  flint-glass. 

Tut.  Yes— but  neither  flint,  nor  any  other  of  the  kind,  will  make  glass, 
even  by  the  strongest  heat,  without  some  addition  ;  but  this  we  will  speak 
of  by-and-by.  I  shall  now  tell  you  the  principal  properties  of  these  earths. 
They  are  all  very  hard,  and  will  strike  fire  with  steel,  when  in  a  mass 


270  TWENTY-SECOND    EVENING. 

large  enough  for  the  stroke.  They  mostly  run  into  particular  shapes,  with 
sharp  angles  and  points,  and  have  a  certain  degree  of  transparency,  which 
has  made  them  also  be  called  crystalline  earths.  They  do  not  in  the 
least  soften  with  water,  like  clays ;  nor  are  they  affected  by  acids,  nor  do 
they  burn  to  lime,  like  the  calcareous  earths.  As  to  the  different  kinds  of 
them,  Jlint  has  already  been  mentioned.  It  is  a  very  common  production 
in  some  parts,  and  is  generally  met  with  in  pebbles,  or  round  lumps  form- 
ing pebbles,  in  gravel-beds,  and  often  almost  entirely  covering  the  surface 
of  ploughed  fields. 

Har.  But  do  they  not  hinder  the  corn  from  growing  ? 

Tut.  The  corn,  to  be  sure,  cannot  take  root  upon  them,  but  I  believe  it 
has  been  found  that  the  protection  they  afford  to  the  young  plants  which 
grow  under  them  is  more  than  equal  to  the  harm  they  do  by  taking  up 
room.  Flints  are  also  frequdtotly  found  imbedded  in  chalk  under  the 
ground.  Those  used  in  the  Staffordshire  potteries  chiefly  come  from 
the  chalk-pits  near  Gravesend.  So  much  for  flints.  You  have  seen 
white  pebbles,  which  are  semi-transparent,  and  when  broken  resemble 
white  sugar-candy.  They  are  common  on  the  seashore,  and  beds  of 
rivers. 

Har.  O,  yes.  We  call  them  fire-stones.  When  they  are  rubbed 
together  in  the  dark  they  send  out  great  flashes  of  light,  and  have  a 
particular  smell. 

Tut.  True.  The  proper  name  of  these  is  quartz.  It  is  found  in  large 
quantities  in  the  earth,  and  the  ores  of  metals  are  often  imbedded  in  it. 
Sometimes  it  is  perfectly  transparent,  and  then  it  is  called  crystal.  Some 
of  these  crystals  shoot  into  exact  mathematical  figures  ;  and  because  many 
salts  do  the  same,  and  are  also  transparent,  they  are  called  the  crystals  of 
such  or  such  a  salt. 

Geo.  Is  not  fine  glass  called  crystal,  too? 

Tut.  It  is  called  so  by  way  of  simile ;  thus  we  say  of  a  thing,  "  It  is 
as  clear  as  a  crystal."  But  the  only  true  crystal  is  an  earth  of  the  kind 
I  have  been  describing.  Well,  now  we  come  to  sand  ;  for  this  is  properly 
only  quartz  in  a  powdery  state.  If  you  examine  the  grains  of  sand  singlv, 
or  look  at  them  with  a  magnifying  glass,  you  will  find  them  all  either 
entirely  or  partly  transparent;  and  in  some  of  the  white  shining  sands 
the  grains  are  all  little  bright  crystals. 

Har.  But  most  sand  is  broken  or  yellowish. 

Tut.  That  is  owing  to  some  mixture  generally  of  the  metallic  kind.    I 


ON  EARTHS  AND  STONES  271 

believe  I  once  told  you  that  all  sands  were  supposed  to  contain  a  small 
portion  of  gold.     It  is  more  certain  that  many  of  them  contain  iron. 

Geo.  But  what  could  have  brought  this  quartz  and  crystal  into  powder, 
so  as  to  have  produced  all  the  sand  in  the  world  ? 

Tut.  That  is  not  very  easy  to  determine.  On  the  seashore,  however, 
the  incessant  rolling  of  the  pebbles  by  the  waves  is  enough  in  time  to 
grind  them  to  powder;  and  there  is  reason  to  believe  that  the  greatest 
part  of  what  is  now  dry  land  was  once  sea,  which  may  account  for  the 
vast  beds  of  sand  met  with  inland. 

Geo.  I  have  seen  some  stone  so  soft  that  one  might  crumble  it  between 
one's  ringers,  and  then  it  seemed  to  turn  to  sand. 

Tut.  There  are  several  of  this  kind,  more  or  less  solid,  which  are 
chiefly  composed  of  sand  conglutinated  by  some  natural  cement.  Such 
are  called  sandstone,  or  freestone,  and  are  used  for  various  purposes,  in 
building,  making  grindstones,  and  the  like,  according  to  their  hardness. 

Har.  Pray,  what  are  the  common  pebbles  that  the  streets  are  paved 
with  ?     I  am  sure  they  strike  fire  enough  with  horses'  shoes. 

Tut.  They  are  stones  of  the  siliceous  kind,  either  pure  or  mixed  with 
other  earths.  One  of  the  hardest  and  best  for  this  purpose  is  called 
granite,  which  is  of  various  kinds  and  colours,  but  always  consists  of 
grains  of  different  siliceous  stones  cemented  together.  The  streets  of 
London  are  paved  with  granite  brought  from  Scotland.  In  some  other 
stones  these  bits  of  different  earths  dispersed  through  the  cement  are  so 
large  as  to  look  like  plums  in  a  pudding ;  whence  they  have  obtained  the 
name  of  pudding-stones. 

Geo.  I  think  there  is  a  kind  of  stones  that  you  have  not  yet  mentioned 
— precious  stones. 

Tut.  These,  too,  are  mostly  siliceous;  but  some  even  of  the  hardest 
and  most  valuable  are  argillaceous  in  their  nature,  though  possessing  none 
of  the  external  properties  of  clay.  The  opaque  and  half-transparent 
precious  stones,  such  as  jasper,  agate,  cornelian,  and  lapis  lazuli,  are 
engraved  upon  for  seal-stones  ;  the  more  beautiful  and  transparent  ones, 
as  ruby,  emerald,  sapphire,  topaz,  which  go  by  the  name  of  gems,  are 
generally  only  cut  and  polished,  and  worn  in  rings,  ear-rings,  necklaces, 
and  the  like. 

Geo.  Diamond,  no  doubt,  is  one  of  them. 

Har.  So  it  has  commonly  been  reckoned,  and  the  purest  of  all;  but  late 
experiments  have  shown,  that  though  it  is  the  hardest  body  in  nature  it 


$72  TWENTY-SECOND    EVENING. 

may  be  totally  dispersed  into  vapour  by  a  strong  fire,  so  that  mineralogists 
will  now  hardly  allow  it  to  be  a  stone  at  all,  but  class  it  among  inflam- 
mable substances.  The  precious  stones  abovementioned  owe  their 
colours  chiefly  to  some  metallic  mixture.  They  are  in  general  extremely 
hard,  so  as  to  cut  glass,  and  one  another;  but  diamonds  will  cut  all  the 
rest. 

Geo.  But  are  they  not  exceedingly  rare? 

Tut.  Yes ;  and  in  this  rarity  consists  the  greatest  part  of  their  value. 
They  are,  indeed,  beautiful  objects  ;  but  the  figure  they  make  in  proportion 
to  their  expense  is  so  very  small,  that  their  high  price  may  be  reckoned 
one  of  the  principal  follies  among  mankind.  What  proportion  can  there 
possibly  be  between  the  real  worth  of  a  glittering  stone  as  big  as  a  hazel- 
nut, and  a  magnificent  house  and  gardens,  or  a  large  tract  of  country 
covered  with  noble  woods  and  rich  meadows  and  cornfields  ?  And  as  to 
the  mere  glitter,  a  large  lustre  of  cut  glass  has  an  infinitely  greater  effect 
on  the  eye  than  all  the  jewels  of  a  foreign  prince. 

Geo.  Will  you  please  to  tell  us  how  glass  is  made  ? 

Tut.  Willingly.  The  base  of  it  is,  as  I  said  before,  some  earth  of  the 
siliceous  class.  Those  commonly  used  are  flint  and  sand.  Flint  is  first 
burnt  or  calcined,  which  makes  it  quite  white,  like  enamel ;  and  it  is  then 
powdered.  This  is  the  material  sometimes  used  for  some  very  white 
glasses;  but  sand  is  that  commonly  preferred,  as  being  already  in  a 
powdery  form.  The  white  crystalline  sands  are  used  for  fine  glass  ;  the 
brown  or  yellow  for  the  common  sort.  As  these  earths  will  not  melt  of 
themselves,  the  addition  in  making  glass  is  somewhat  that  promotes  their 
fusion.  Various  things  will  do  this ;  but  what  is  generally  used  is  an 
alkaline  salt,  obtained  from  the  ashes  of  burnt  vegetables.  Of  this  there 
are  several  kinds,  as  potash,  pearlash,  barilla,  and  kelp.  The  salt  is  mixed 
with  the  sand  in  a  certain  proportion,  and  the  mixture  then  exposed  in 
earthen  pots  to  a  violent  heat,  till  it  is  thoroughly  melted.  The  mass  is 
then  cooled  till  it  is  nearly  of  the  consistence  of  dough,  and  in  this  state 
it  is  fashioned  by  blowing  and  the  use  of  shears  and  other  instruments. 
You  must  see  this  done  some  time,  for  it  is  one  of  the  most  curious  and 
pleasing  of  all  manufactures  ;  and  it  is  not  possible  to  form  an  idea  of  the 
ease  and  dexterity  with  which  glass  is  wrought,  without  an  actual  view. 

Har.  I  should  like  very  much  to  see  it,  indeed. 

Geo.  Where  is  glass  made  in  this  country  ? 

Tut.  In  many  places.     Some  of  the  finest  in  London  •  but  the  coarser 


ON    EARTHS    AND    STONES.  tf'6 

kinds  generally  where  coals  are  cheap ;  as  at  Newcastle  and  its  neigh- 
bourhood, in  Lancashire,  at  Stourbridge,  Bristol,  and  in  South  Wales.  I 
should  have  told  you,  however,  that  in  our  finest  and  most  brilliant  glass, 
a  quantity  of  the  oxide  of  lead  is  put,  which  vitrifies  with  the  other 
ingredients,  and  gives  the  glass  more  firmness  and  density.  The  blue, 
yellow,  and  red  glasses  are  coloured  with  the  oxides  of  other  metals.  As 
to  the  common  green  glass,  it  is  made  with  an  alkali  that  has  a  good  deal 
of  calcareous  earth  remaining  with  the  ashes  of  the  plant.  But  to  under- 
stand all  the  different  circumstances  of  glassmaking,  one  must  have  a 
thorough  knowledge  of  chymistry.< 

Geo.  I  think  making  of  glass  is  one  of  the  finest  inventions  of  human 
skill. 

Tut.  It  is  perhaps  not  of  that  capital  importance  that  some  other  arts 
possess ;  but  it  has  been  a  great  addition  to  the  comfort  and  pleasure  of 
life  in  many  ways.  Nothing  makes  such  clean  and  agreeable  vessels  as 
glass,  which  has  the  quality  of  not  being  corroded  by  any  kind  of  liquor, 
as  well  as  that  of  showing  its  contents  by  its  transparency.  Hence  it  is 
greatly  preferable  to  the  most  precious  metals  for  drinking  out  of;  and 
for  the  same  reasons  it  is  preferred  to  every  other  material  for  chymical 
utensils,  where  the  heat  to  be  employed  is  not  strong  enough  to  melt  it. 

Har.  Then  glass  windows. 

Tut.  Ay ;  that  is  a  very  material  comfort  in  a  climate  like  ours,  where 
we  so  often  wish  to  let  in  the  light,  and  keep  out  the  cold  wind  and  rain. 
What  could  be  more  gloomy  than  to  sit  in  the  dark,  or  with  no  other 
light  than  came  in  through  small  holes  covered  with  oiled  paper  or  bladder 
unable  to  see  anything  passing  without  doors  !  Yet  this  must  have  been 
the  case  with  the  most  sumptuous  palaces  before  the  invention  of  window- 
glass,  which  was  a  good  deal  later  than  that  of  bottles  and  drinking- 
glasses. 

Har.  I  think  looking-glasses  are  very  beautiful. 

Tut.  They  are,  indeed,  very  elegant  pieces  of  furniture,  and  very  costly 
too.  The  art  of  casting  glass  into  large  plates,  big  enough  to  reach  almost 
from  the  bottom  to  the  top  of  a  room,  is  but  lately  introduced  into  this 
country  from  France.  But  the  most  splendid  and  brilliant  manner  of 
employing  glass  is  in  lustres  and  chandeliers,  hung  around  with  drops  cut 
so  as  to  reflect  the  light  with  all  the  colours  of  the  rainbow.  Some  of  the 
shops  in  London,  filled  with  these  articles,  appear  to  realize  all  the 
wonders  of  an  enchanted  palace  in  the  Arabian  Nights'  Entertainments 

12* 


274  TWENTY-SECOND    EVENING. 

Geo.  But  are  not  spectacles  and  spymg-glasses  more  useful  than  all 
these  ? 

TuU  I  did  not  mean  to  pass  them  over,  I  assure  you.  By  the  curious 
invention  of  optical  glasses  of  various  kinds,  not  only  the  natural  defects 
of  the  sight  have  been  remedied,  and  old  age  has  been  in  some  measure 
lightened  of  one  of  its  calamities,  but  the  sense  of  seeing  has  been  won- 
derfully extended.  The  telescope  has  brought  distant  objects  within  our 
view,  while  the  microscope  has  given  us  a  clear  survey  of  near  objects  too 
minute  for  our  unassisted  eyes.  By  means  of  both,  some  of  the  brightest 
discoveries  of  the  modern  times  have  been  made  ;  so  that  glass  has  proved 
not  less  admirable  in  promoting  science  than  in  contributing  to  splendour 
and  convenience.  Well— I  don't  know  that  I  have  anything  more  at 
present  to  say  relative  to  the  class  of  earths.  We  have  gone  through  the 
principal  circumstances  belonging  to  their  three  great  divisions,  the 
calcareous ,  argillaceous,  and  siliceous.  You  will  remember,  however, 
that  most  of  the  earths  and  stones  offered  by  nature  are  not  in  any  one 
of  these  kinds  perfectly  pure,  but  contain  a  mixture  of  one  or  both  the 
others.  There  is  not  a  pebble  that  you  can  pick  up,  which  would  not 
exercise  the  skill  of  a  mineralogist  fully  to  ascertain  its  properties,  and 
the  materials  of  its  composition.     So  inexhaustible  is  nature ! 


The  Native  Village,  p.  231. 

EVENING  XXIII. 


SHOW  AND  USE;  OR,  THE  TWO  PRESENTS. 

One  morning,  Lord  Richmore,  coming  down  to  breakfast,  was  welcomed 
with  the  tidings  that  his  favourite  mare,  Miss  Slim,  had  brought  a  foal, 
and  also,  that  a  she-ass,  kept  for  his  lady's  use  as  a  milker,  had  dropped 
a  young  one.  His  lordship  smiled  at  the  inequality  of  the  presents  nature 
had  made  him.  "As  for  the  foal,"  said  he  to  the  groom,  "  that,  you  know, 
nas  been  long  promised  to  my  neighbour,  Mr.  Scamper.  For  young 
Balaam,  you  may  dispose  of  him  as  you  please."  The  groom  thanked 
his  lordship,  and  said  he  would  then  give  him  to  Isaac  the  woodman. 

275 


276  TWENTY-THIRD    EVENING. 

In  due  time.  Miss  Slim's  foal,  which  was  the  son  of  a  noted  racer,  was 
taken  to  Squire  Scamper's,  who  received  him  with  great  delight,  and  out 
of  compliment  to  the  donor,  named  him  Young  Peer.  He  was  brought 
up  with  at  least  as  much  care  and  tenderness  as  the  Squire's  own  children 
— kept  in  a  warm  stable,  fed  with  the  best  of  corn  and  hay,  duly  dressed 
and  regularly  exercised.  As  he  grew  up,  he  gave  tokens  of  great  beauty. 
His  colour  was  bright  bay,  with  a  white  star  on  his  forehead ;  his  coat  was 
fine,  and  shone  like  silk ;  and  every  point  about  him  seemed  to  promise 
perfection  of  shape  and  make.  Everybody  admired  him  as  the  completest 
colt  that  could  be  seen. 

So  fine  a  creature  could  not  be  destined  to  any  useful  employment. 
After  he  had  passed  his  third  year,  he  was  sent  to  Newmarket  to  be 
trained  for  the  turf,  and  a  groom  was  appointed  to  the  care  of  him  alone. 
His  master,  who  could  not  well  afford  the  expense,  saved  part  of  it  by 
turning  off  a  domestic  tutor  whom  he  kept  for  the  education  of  his  sons, 
and  was  content  with  sending  them  to  the  curate  of  the  parish. 

At  four  years  old,  Young  Peer  started  for  a  subscription  purse,  and 
came  in  second  out  of  a  number  of  competitors.  Soon  after,  he  won  a 
country  plate,  and  filled  his  master  with  joy  and  triumph.  The  Squire 
now  turned  all  his  attention  to  the  turf,  made  matches,  betted  high,  and 
was  at  first  tolerably  successful.  At  length,  having  ventured  all  the 
money  he  could  raise  upon  one  grand  match,  Young  Peer  ran  on  the 
wrong  side  of  the  post,  was  distanced,  and  the  Squire  ruined. 

Meantime,  young  Balaam  went  into  Isaac's  possession,  where  he  had  a 
very  different  training.  He  was  left  to  pick  up  his  living  as  he  could  in 
the  lanes  and  commons;  and  on  the  coldest  days,  in  winter  he  had  no 
other  shelter  than  the  lee- side  of  the  cottage,  out  of  which  he  was  often 
glad  to  pluck  the  thatch  for  a  subsistence.  As  soon  as  ever  he  was  able 
to  bear  a  rider,  Isaac's  children  got  upon  him,  sometimes  two  or  three  at 
once  ;  and  if  he  did  not  go  to  their  mind,  a  broomstick  or  bunch  of  furze 
was  freely  applied  to  his  hide.  Nevertheless,  he  grew  up,  as  the  children 
themselves  did,  strong  and  healthy ;  and  though  he  was  rather  bare  on 
the  ribs,  his  shape  was  good,  and  his  limbs  vigorous. 

It  was  not  long  before  his  master  thought  of  putting  him  to  some  use ; 
so  taking  him  to  the  wood,  he  fastened  a  load  of  fagots  on  his  back,  and 
sent  him  with  his  son  Tom  to  the  next  town.  Tom  sold  the  fagots,  and 
mounting  upon  Balaam,  rode  him  home.  As  Isaac  could  get  plenty  of  fagots 
and  chips,  he  found  it  a  profitable  trade  to  send  them  for  daily  sale  upon 


CRUCIFORM-FLOWERED    PLANTS.  277 

Balaam's  back.  Having  a  little  garden,  which,  from  the  barrenness  of 
the  soil,  yielded  him  nothing  of  value,  he  bethought  him  of  loading 
Balaam  back  from  town  with  dung  for  manure.  Though  all  he  could 
bring  at  once  was  contained  in  two  small  panniers,  yet  this  in  time 
amounted  to  enough  to  mend  the  soil  of  his  whole  garden,  so  that  he  grew 
very  good  cabbages  and  potatoes,  to  the  great  relief  of  his  family.  Isaac 
being  now  sensible  of  the  value  of  his  ass,  began  to  treat  him  with  more 
attention.  He  got  a  small  stack  of  rushy  hay  for  his  winter  fodder,  and 
with  his  own  hands  built  him  a  little  shed  of  boughs  and  mud,  in  order 
to  shelter  him  from  the  bad  weather.  He  would  not  suffer  any  of  his 
family  to  use  Balaam  ill,  and  after  his  daily  journeys  he  was  allowed  to 
ramble  at  pleasure.  He  was  now  and  then  cleaned  and  dressed,  and 
upon  the  whole  made  a  reputable  figure.  Isaac  took  in  more  land  from  the 
waste,  so  that  by  degrees  he  became  a  little  farmer,  and  kept  a  horse  and 
cart,  a  cow,  and  two  or  three  pigs.  This  made  him  quite  a  rich  man,  but 
he  had  always  the  gratitude  to  impute  his  prosperity  to  the  good  services 
of  Balaam,  the  groom's  present  ;  while  the  Squire  cursed  Young  Peer  as 
the  cause  of  his  ruin,  and  many  a  time  wished  that  his  lordship  had  kept 
his  dainty  gift  to  himself. 


THE  CRUCIFORM-FLOWERED  PLANTS. 

Tutor —  George — Harry. 

George.  How  rich  yon  field  looks  with  its  yellow  flowers !  I  wondei 
what  they  can  be  ? 

Tutor.  Suppose  you  go  and  see  if  you  can  find  it  out ;  and  bring  a  stalk 
of  the  flowers  with  you. 

Geo.  {Returning).  I  know  now — they  are  turnips. 

Tut.  I  thought  you  could  make  it  out  when  you  came  near  them. 
These  turnips  are  left  to  seed,  which  is  the  reason  why  you  see  them  run 
to  flower.     Commonly  they  are  pulled  up  sooner. 

Harry.  I  should  not  have  thought  a  turnip  had  so  sweet  a  flower. 

Geo.  I  think  I  have  smelt  others  like  them.  Pray,  sir,  what  class  of 
plants  do  they  belong  to  ? 

Tut.  To  a  very  numerous  one,  with  which  it  is  worth  your  while  to 
get  acquainted.  Let  us  sit  down  and  examine  them.  The  petal,  you 
observe,  consists  of  four  flat  leaves  set  opposite  to  each  other,  or  cross- 
wise.    From  this  circumstance  the  flowers  have  been  called  cruciform. 


278  TWENTY-THIRD    EVENING. 

As  most  plants  with  flowers  of  this  kind  bear  their  seeds  in  pods,  they 
have  likewise  been  called  the  siliquose  plants,  siliqua  being  the  Latin 
for  a  pod. 

Geo.  But  the  papilionaceous  flowers  bear  pods,  too. 

Tut.  True ;  and  therefore  the  name  is  not  a  good  one.  Now  pull  ofl 
the  petals  one  by  one.  You  see  they  are  fastened  by  long  claws  within 
the  flower  cup.    Now  count  the  chives- 

Har.  There  are  six. 

Geo.  But  they  are  not  all  of  the  same  length — two  are  much  shorter 
than  the  rest. 

Tut.  Well  observed.  It  is  from  this  that  Linnaeus  has  formed  a 
particular  class  for  the  whole  tribe,  which  he  calls  tetradynamia,  a  word 
implying  four  powers,  or  the  power  of  four,  as  if  the  four  longer  chives 
were  more  perfect  and  efficacious  than  the  two  shorter ;  which,  however, 
we  do  not  know  to  be  the  case.  This  superior  length  of  four  chives' is 
conspicuous  in  most  plants  of  this  tribe,  but  not  in  all.  They  have,  however, 
other  resemblances  which  are  sufficient  to  constitute  them  a  natural 
family ;  and  accordingly  all  botanists  have  made  them  such. 

The  flowers,  as  I  have  said,  have  in  all  of  them  four  petals  placed 
crosswise.  The  calyx  also  consists  of  four  oblong  and  hollow  leaves. 
There  is  a  single  pistil,  standing  upon  a  seed-bud,  which,  turns  either 
into  a  long  pod,  or  a  short  round  one  called  a  pouch;  and  hence  are 
formed  the  two  great  branches  of  the  family,  the  podded  and  the  pouched. 
The  seed-vessel  has  two  valves,  or  external  openings,  with  a  partition 
between.  The  seeds  are  small  and  roundish,  attached  alternately  to 
both  sutures  or  joinings  of  the  valves.  Do  you  observe  all  these  circum- 
stances ? 

Geo.  and  Har.  We  do. 

Tut.  You  shall  examine  them  more  minutely  in  a  larger  plant  of  tne 
kind.  Further,  almost  all  these  plants  have  somewhat  of  a  biting  taste, 
and  also  a  disagreeable  smell  in  their  leaves,  especially  when  decayed. 
A  turnip-field,  you  know,  smells  but  indifferently;  and  cabbage,  which  is 
one  of  this  class,  is  apt  to  be  remarkably  offensive. 

Har.  Yes,  there  is  nothing  worse  than  rotten  cabbage-leaves. 

Geo.  And  the  very  water  in  which  they  are  boiled  is  enough  to  scent  a 
whole  house. 

Tut.  The  flowers,  however,  of  almost  all  the  family  are  fragrant,  and 
some  remarkably  so.     What  do  you  think  of  wall-flowers,  and  stocks? 


CRUCIFORM-FLOWERED    PLANTS.  279 

liar.  What,  are  they  of  this  kind  ? 

Tut.  Yes — and  so  is  candy-tuft,  and  rocket. 

liar.  Then  they  are  not  to  be  despised. 

Tut.  No — and  especially  as  not  one  of  the  whole  class,  I  bel./eve,  is 
poisonous ;  but,  on  the  contrary,  many  of  them  afford  good  food  for  man 
and  beast.     Shall  I  tell  you  about  the  principal  of  them  ? 

Geo.  Pray  do,  sir. 

Tut.  The  pungency  of  taste  which  so  many  of  them  possess  has  caused 
them  to  be  used  for  salad  herbs.  Thus  we  have  cress,  water-cress,  and 
mustard  ;  to  which  might  be  added  many  more  which  grow  wild,  as  lady- 
smock,  wild-rocket,  hedge-mustard,  and  jack-by-the-hedge,  or  sauce-alone. 
Mustard,  you  know,  is  also  greatly  used  for  its  seeds,  the  powder  or  flower 
of  which,  made  into  a  sort  of  paste  with  salt  and  water,  is  eaten  with 
many  kinds  of  meat.  Rape-seeds  are  very  similar  to  them,  and  from  both 
an  oil  is  pressed  out,  of  the  mild  or  tasteless  kind,  as  it  is  likewise  from 
cole-seed,  another  product  of  this  class.  Scurvy-grass,  which  is  a  pungen* 
plant  of  this  family,  growing  by  the  seaside,  has  obtained  its  name  from 
being  a  remedy  for  the  scurvy.  Then  there  is  horseradish,  with  the  root 
of  which  I  am  sure  you  are  well  acquainted,  as  a  companion  to  roast  beef. 
Common  radish,  too,  is  a  plant  of  this  kind,  which  has  a  good  deal  of 
pungency.  One  sort  of  it  has  a  root  like  a  turnip,  which  brings  it  near  in 
quality  to  the  turnip  itself.  This  last  plant,  though  affording  a  sweet  and 
mild  nutriment,  has  naturally  a  degree  of  pungency  and  rankness. 

Geo.  That,  I  suppose,  is  the  reason  why  turnipy  milk  and  butter  have 
such  a  strong  taste  ? 

Tut.  It  is. 

liar.  Then  why  do  they  feed  cows  with  it  ? 

Tut.  In  this  case  as  in  many  others,  quality  is  sacrificed  to  quantity. 
But  the  better  use  of  the  turnip  to  the  farmer  is  to  fatten  sheep  and  cattle. 
By  its  assistance  he  is  enabled  to  keep  many  more  of  these  animals  than 
he  could  find  grass  or  hay  for;  and  the  culture  of  turnips  prepares  his  land 
for  grain  as  well,  or  better,  than  could  be  done  by  letting  it  lie  quite  fallow. 
Turnip  husbandry,  as  it  is  called,  is  one  of  the  capital  modern  improve- 
ments of  agriculture. 

Geo.  I  think  I  have  heard  that  Norfolk  is  famous  for  it. 

Tut.  It  is  so.  That  county  abounds  in  light  sandy  lands,  which  are 
peculiarly  suitable  to  turnips.  But  they  are  now  grown  in  many  parts 
of  England  besides.     Well — but  we  must  say   something  more  about 


281)  TWENTY-THIRD    EVENING. 

cabbage,  an  article  of  food  of  very  long  standing.  The  original  species 
of  this  is  a  seaside  plant,  but  cultivation  has  produced  a  great  number  of 
varieties  well  known  in  our  gardens,  as  white  and  red  cabbage,  kale, 
colewort,  brocoli,  borecole,  and  cauliflower. 

Har.  But  the  flower  of  cauliflower  does  not  seem  at  all  like  that  of 
cabbage  or  turnip. 

Tut.  The  white  head,  called  its  flower,  is  not  properly  so,  but  consists 
of  a  cluster  of  imperfect  buds.  If  they  are  left  to  grow  for  seed,  thex 
throw  out  some  spikes  of  yellow  flowers  like  common  cabbage.  Brocoli 
heads  are  of  the  same  kind.  As  to  the  head  of  white  or  red  cabbage,  it 
consists  of  a  vast  number  of  leaves  closing  round  each  other,  by  which 
the  innermost  are  prevented  from  expanding,  and  remain  white  on  account 
of  the  exclusion  of  the  light  and  air.  This  part,  you  know,  is  most  valued 
for  food.  In  some  countries  they  cut  cabbage-heads  into  quarters,  and 
make  them  undergo  a  kind  of  acid  fermentation ;  after  which  they  are 
salted  and  preserved  for  winter  food,  under  the  name  of  sour-krout. 

Geo.  Cattle,  too,  are  sometimes  fed  with  cabbage,  I  believe. 

Tut.  Yes,  and  large  fields  of  them  are  cultivated  for  that  purpose. 
They  succeed  best  in  stiff  clayey  soils,  where  they  sometimes  grow  to  an 
enormous  bigness.  They  are  given  to  milch  kine  as  well  as  to  fattening 
cattle. 

Geo.  Do  not  they  give  a  bad  taste  to  the  milk  ? 

Tut.  They  are  apt  to  do  so  unless  great  care  is  taken  to  pick  off  all  the 
decayed  leaves. 

Coleworts,  which  are  a  smaller  sort  of  cabbage,  are  sometimes  grown 
for  feeding  sheep  and  cattle.  I  think  I  have  new  mentioned  most  of  the 
useful  plants  of  this  family,  which  you  see  are  numerous  and  important. 
They  both  yield  beef  and  mutton,  and  the  sauce  to  them.  But  many  of 
the  species  are  troublesome  weeds.  You  see  how  yonder  corn  is  overrun 
with  yellow  flowers. 

Geo.  Yes :  they  are  as  thick  as  if  they  had  been  sown. 

Tut.  They  are  of  this  family,  and  called  charlock,  or  wild  mustard,  or 
corn  kale,  which,  indeed,  are  not  all  exactly  the  same  things,  though  nearly 
resembling.  These  produce  such  plenty  of  seeds,  that  it  is  very  difficult 
to  clear  a  field  of  them,  if  once  they  are  suffered  to  grow  till  the  seeds  ripen. 
An  extremely  common  weed  in  gardens  and  by  roadsides  is  shepherd's- 
purse,  which  is  a  very  good  specimen  of  the  pouch-bearing  plants  of  this 
tribe,  its  seed-vessels  being  exactly  the  figure  of  a  heart.     Lady-smock  is 


NATIVE    VILLAGE  281 

often  so  abundant  a  weed  in  wet  meadows  as  to  make  them  all  over  white 
with  their  flowers.  Some  call  this  plant  cuckoo-flower,  because  its  flow- 
ering is  about  the  same  time  with  the  first  appearance  of  that  bird  in  spring. 
Geo.  I  remember  some  pretty  lines  in  a  song  about  spring,  in  which 
lady-smock  is  mentioned  : — 

"  When  daisies  pied,  and  violets  blue, 
And  lady-smocks  all  silver  white, 
And  cuckoo-buds  of  yellow  hue, 
Do  paint  the  meadows  with  delight." 

Tut.  They  are  Shakspeare's.  You  see  he  gives  the  name  of  cuckoo- 
bud  to  some  other  flower,  a  yellow  one,  which  appears  at  the  same  season. 
But  still  earlier  than  this  time,  walls  and  hedge-banks  are  enlivened  by  a 
very  small  white  flower,  called  whitlow-grass,  which  is  one  of  the  tribe. 

Har.  Is  it  easy  to  distinguish  the  plants  of  this  family  from  one  another? 

Tut.  Not  very  easy ;  for  the  general  similarity  of  the  flowers  is  so  great, 
that  little  distinction  can  be  drawn  from  them.  The  marks  of  the  species 
are  chiefly  taken  from  the  form  and  manner  of  growth  of  the  seed-vessel, 
and  we  will  examine  some  of  them  by  the  descriptions  in  a  book  of  botany. 
There  is  one  very  remarkable  seed-vessel,  which  probably  you  have 
observed  in  the  garden.  It  is  a  perfectly  round  large  flat  pouch,  which 
after  it  has  shed  its  seed,  remains  on  the  stalk  and  looks  likes  a  thin  white 
bladder.     The  plant  bearing  it  is  commonly  called  honesty. 

Har.  O,  I  know  it  very  well !     It  is  put  into  winter  flower-pots. 

Tut.  True.  So  much,  then,  for  the  tetradynamious  or  cruciiorm- 
flowered  plants.  You  cannot  well  mistake  them  for  any  other  class,  if 
you  remark  the  six  chives,  four  of  them,  generally,  but  not  always,  longer 
than  the  two  others  ;  the  single  pistil  changing  either  into  a  long  pod  or  a 
round  pouch  containing  the  seeds ;  the  four  opposite  petals  of  the  flower, 
and  four  leaves  of  the  calyx.  You  may  safely  make  a  salad  of  the  young 
leaves  wherever  you  find  them :  the  worst  they  can  do  to  you  is  to  bite 
your  tongue. 

THE  NATIVE  VILLAGE.-A  Drama. 

Scene — A  scattered  Village  almost  hidden  with  trees. 
Enter  Harford  and  Beaumont. 
Harford.  There  is  the  place !     This  is  the  green  on  which  I  played 
many  a  day  with  my  companions ;  there  are  the  tall  trees  that  I  have  so 


282  TWENTY-THIRD    EVENING. 

often  climbed  for  birds'-nests  ;  and  that  is  the  pond  where  I  used  to  sail 
my  walnut-shell  boats.  What  a  crowd  of  mixed  sensations  rush  on  my 
mind  !  What  pleasures,  and  what  regret !  Yes,  there  is  somewhat  in 
our  native  soil  that  affects  the  mind  in  a  manner  different  from  every  other 
scene  in  nature. 

Beaumont.  With  you  it  must  be  merely  the  place  ;  for  I  think  you  can 
have  no  attachments  of  friendship  or  affection  in  it,  considering  your  long 
absence,  and  the  removal  of  all  your  family. 

Harf.  No,  I  have  no  family  connexions,  and  indeed  can  scarcely  be 
said  ever  to  have  had  any  ;  for,  as  you  know,  I  was  almost  utterly 
neglected  after  the  death  of  my  father  and  mother,  and  while  all  my  elder 
brothers  and  sisters  were  dispersed  to  one  part  or  another,  and  the  little 
remaining  property  was  disposed  of,  I  was  left  with  the  poor  people  who 
nursed  me,  to  be  brought  up  just  as  they  thought  proper;  and  the  little 
pension  that  was  paid  for  me  entirely  ceased  after  a  few  years. 

Beau.  Then  how  were  you  afterward  supported  ? 

Harf.  The  honest  couple  who  had  the  care  of  me  continued  to  treat 
me  with  the  greatest  kindness ;  and  poor  as  they  were,  not  only  maintained 
me  as  a  child  of  their  own,  but  did  all  in  their  power  to  procure  me 
advantages  more  suited  to  my  birth  than  my  deserted  situation.  With 
the  assistance  of  the  worthy  clergyman  of  the  parish,  they  put  me  to  a 
day-school  in  the  village,  clothed  me  decently,  and  being  themselves 
sober,  religious  persons,  took  care  to  keep  me  from  vice.  The  obligations 
I  am  under  to  them,  will,  I  hope,  never  be  effaced  from  my  memory,  and 
it  is  on  their  account  alone  that  I  have  undertaken  this  journey. 

Beau.  How  long  did  you  continue  with  them? 

Harf.  Till  I  was  thirteen.  I  then  felt  an  irresistible  desire  to  fight  for 
my  country  ;  and  learning  by  accident  that  a  distant  relation  of  our  family 
was  a  captain  of  a  man-of-war,  I  took  leave  of  my  worthy  benefactors,  and 
set  off  to  the  seaport  where  he  lay,  the  good  people  furnishing  me  in  the 
best  manner  they  were  able  with  necessaries  for  the  journey.  I  shall 
never  forget  the  tenderness  with  which  they  parted  with  me.  It  was,  if 
possible,  beyond  that  of  the  kindest  parents.  You  know  my  subsequent 
adventures,  from  the  time  of  my  becoming  a  midshipman,  to  my  present  state 
of  first-lieutenant  of  the  Britannia.  Though  it  is  now  fifteen  years  since 
my  departure,  I  feel  my  affection  for  these  good  folks  stronger  than  ever, 
and  could  not  be  easy  without  taking  the  first  opportunity  of  seeing  them. 

Beau.  It  is  a  great  chance  if  they  are  both  living. 


NATIVE    VILLAGE.  283 

Harf.  I  happened  to  hear  by  a  young  man  of  the  village,  not  long  since, 
that  they  were ;  but  I  believe  much  reduced  in  their  circumstances. 

Beau.  Whereabouts  did  they  live  ? 

Harf.  Just  at  the  turning  of  this  corner.  But  what 's  this  ? — I  can't  find 
the  house — yet  I  am  sure  I  have  not  forgot  the  situation.  Surely  it  must 
be  pulled  down  !  Oh  !  my  dear  old  friends,  what  can  have  become  of  you? 

Beau.  You  had  best  ask  that  little  girl. 

Harf.  Hark  ye,  my  dear  !  do  you  know  one  John  Beech,  of  this  place? 

Girl.  What,  old  John  Beech  ?     O  yes,  very  well,  and  Mary  Beech,  too. 

Harf  Where  do  they  live? 

Girl.  A  little  farther  on  in  the  lane. 

Harf.  Did  they  not  once  live  hereabouts  ? 

Girl.  Yes,  till  Farmer  Ty  thing  pulled  the  house  down  to  make  his  hop- 
garden. 

Harf.  Come  with  me  to  show  me  the  place,  and  I'll  give  you  a  penny. 

Girl.  Yes,  that  I  will.  (They  walk  on.)  There — that  low  thatched 
house — and  there's  Mary  spinning  at  the  door. 

Harf.  There,  my  dear  (gives  money,  and  the  girl  goes  away).  How 
my  heart  beats !  Surely  that  cannot  be  my  nurse  !  Yes,  I  recollect  hei 
now ;  but  how  very  old  and  sickly  she  looks  ! 

Beau.  Fifteen  years  in  her  life,  with  care  and  hardship,  must  go  a  great 
way  in  breaking  her  down. 

Harf.  (going  to  the  cottage-door).  Good  morning,  good  woman  ;  can 
you  give  my  companion  and  me  something  to  drink  ?  We  are  very  thirsty 
with  walking  this  hot  day. 

Mary  Beech.  I  have  nothing  better  than  water,  sir ;  but  if  you  please 
to  accept  of  that,  I  will  bring  you  some. 

Beau.  Thank  you — we  will  trouble  you  for  some. 

Mary.  Will  you  please  to  walk  in  out  of  the  sun,  gentlemen  ;  ours  is  a 
very  poor  house,  indeed ;.  but  I  will  find  you  a  seat  to  sit  down  on,  while 
I  draw  the  water. 

Harf.  (to  Beau.).    The  same  good  creature  as  ever  !     Let  us  go  in. 

Scene  II.—  The  inside  of  the  cottage.    An  old  man  sitting  by  the  hearth. 

Beau.  We  have  made  bold,  friend,  to  trouble  your  wife  for  a  little  water. 
John.  Sit  down — sit  down— gentlemen.     I  would  get  up  to  give  you 
my  chair,  but  I  have  the  misfortune  to  be  lame,  and  am  almost  blind  too 
Harf.  Lame  and  blind  !  Oh  Beaumont !  (aside). 


284  TWENTY-THIRD    EVENING. 

John.  Ay,  sir,  old  age  will  come  on ;  and,  God  knows,  we  have  very 
little  means  to  fence  against  it. 

Beau.  What,  have  you  nothing  but  your  labour  to  subsist  on? 

John.  We  made  that  do,  sir,  as  long  as  we  could ;  but  now  I  am  hardly 
capable  of  doing  anything,  and  my  poor  wife  can  earn  very  little  by  spin- 
ning, so  we  have  been  forced  at  last  to  apply  to  the  parish. 

Harf.  To  the  parish !  Well  I  hope  they  consider  the  services  of  your 
better  days,  and  provide  for  you  comfortably. 

John.  Alas,  sir ;  I  am  not  much  given  to  complain ;  but  what  can  two 
shillings  a  week  do  in  these  hard  times  ? 

Harf.  Little  enough,  indeed  !     And  is  that  all  they  allow  you  ? 

John.  It  is,  sir ;  and  we  are  not  to  have  that  much  longer,  for  they  say 
we  must  come  into  the  workhouse. 

Mary  {entering  with  the  water).  Here,  gentlemen,  the  jug  is  clean, 
if  you  can  drink  out  of  it. 

Harf.  The  workhouse,  do  you  say  ? 

Mary.  Yes,  gentlemen  ;  that  makes  my  poor  husband  so  uneasy — that 
we  should  come  in  our  old  days  to  die  in  a  workhouse.  We  have  lived 
better,  I  assure  you — but  we  were  turned  out  of  our  little  farm  by  the  great 
farmer  near  the  church ;  and  since  then  we  have  grown  poorer  and  poorer, 
and  weaker  and  weaker,  so  that  we  have  nothing  to  help  ourselves  with. 

John  (sobbing).  To  die  in  a  parish  workhouse — I  can  hardly  bear  the 
thought  of  it !  But  God  knows  best,  and  we  must  submit ! 

Harf.  But,  my  good  people,  have  you  no  children  to  assist  you? 

John.  Our  children,  sir,  are  all  dead  except  one  that  is  settled  a  long 
way  off,  and  as  poor  as  we  are. 

Beau.  But  surely,  my  friends,  such  decent  people  as  you  seem  to  be, 
must  have  somebody  to  protect  you. 

Mary.  No,  sir ;  we  know  nobody  but  our  neighbours,  and  they  think 
the  workhouse  good  enough  for  the  poor. 

Harf  Pray,  was  there  not  a  family  of  Harford s  once  in  this  village  ? 

John.  Yes,  sir,  a  long  while  ago — but  they  are  all  dead  and  gone,  or 
else  far  enough  from  this  place. 

Mary.  Ay,  sir,  the  youngest  of  them,  and  the  finest  child  among  them, 
that  I'll  say  for  him,  was  nursed  in  our  house  when  we  lived  on  the  old  spot 
near  the  green.  He  was  with  us  till  he  was  thirteen,  and  a  sweet-behaved 
boy  he  was ;  I  loved  him  as  well  as  ever  I  did  any  of  my  own  children. 

Harf.  What  became  of  him  ? 


NATIVE    VILLAGE.  285 

John.  Why,  sir,  he  was  a  fine  bold-spirited  boy,  though  the  best  tempered 
creature  in  the  world — so  last  war  he  would  be  a  sailor,  and  fight  the  French 
and  Spaniards,  and  away  he  went,  nobody  could  stop  him,  and  we  have 
never  heard  a  word  of  him  since. 

Mary.  Ay,  he  is  dead  or  killed,  I  warrant — for  if  he  was  alive,  I  am  sure 
nothing  would  keep  him  from  coming  to  see  his  poor  daddy  and  mamma 
as  he  used  to  call  us.     Many  a  night  have  I  lain  awake  thinking  of  him  ! 

Harf.  (to  Beau.).    I  can  hold  no  longer. 

Beau,  (to  him).  Restrain  yourself  awhile.  Well,  my  friends,  in  return 
for  your  kindness,  I  will  tell  you  some  news  that  will  please  you.  This 
same  Harford,  Edward  Harford.  .  . . 

Mary.  Ay,  that  was  his  name — my  dear  Ned  ! — What  of  him,  sir,  is  he 
living  1 

John.  Let  the  gentlemen  speak,  my  dear. 

Beau.  Ned  Harford  is  now  alive  and  well,  and  a  lieutenant  in  his 
majesty's  navy,  and  as  brave  an  officer  as  any  in  the  service. 

John.  I  hope  you  do  not  jest  with  us,  sir  ? 

Beau.  I  do  not,  upon  my  honour. 

Mary.  Oh,  thank  God — thank  God — if  I  could  but  see  him  ! 

John.  Ay,  I  wish  for  nothing  more  before  I  die. 

Harf.  Here  he  is — here  he  is !  My  dearest,  best  benefactors  !  Here 
I  am,  to  pay  some  of  the  great  debt  of  kindness  I  owe  you.  (Clasps 
Mary  round  the  neck,  and  kisses  her.) 

Mary.  What — this  gentleman  my  Ned  !  Ay,  it  is,  it  is — I  see  it,  I  see  it ! 

John.  Oh,  my  old  eyes ! — but  I  know  his  voice  now.  (Stretches  out 
his  hand,  which  Harford  grasps.) 

Harf.  My  good  old  man !  Oh  that  you  could  see  me  as  clearly  as  I 
do  you ! 

John.  Enough — enough — it  is  you,  and  I  am  contented. 

Mary.  O,  happy  day  !     O,  happy  day  ! 

Harf.  Did  you  think  I  could  ever  forget  you  ? 

John.  Oh,  no ;  I  knew  you  better ;  but  how  long  it  is  since  we  parted  ! 

Mary.  Fifteen  years  come  Whitsuntide. 

Harf.  The  first  time  I  set  foot  in  England  all  this  long  interval  was 
three  weeks  ago. 

John.  How  good  you  were  to  come  to  us  so  soon ! 

Mary.  What  a  tall  strong  man  you  are  grown !  but  you  have  the  same 
sweet  smile  as  ever. 


286  TWENTY-THIRD    EVENING. 

John.  I  wish  1  could  see  him  plain — but  what  signifies  !  he's  here,  and 
I  hold  him  by  the  hand.     Where's  the  other  good  gentleman  ? 

Beau.  Here — very  happy  to  see  such  worthy  people  made  so. 

Harf.  He  has  been  my  dearest  friend  for  a  great  many  years,  and  I  am 
beholden  to  him  almost  as  much  as  to  you  two. 

Mary.  Has  he  ?     God  bless  him  and  reward  him ! 

Harf.  I  am  grieved  to  think  what  you  must  have  suffered  from  hardship 
and  poverty.     But  that  is  all  at  an  end — no  workhouse  now. 

John.  God  bless  you!  then  I  shall  be  happy  still.  But  we  must  not  be 
burdensome  to  you. 

Harf.  Don't  talk  of  that.  As  long  as  I  have  a  shilling,  it  is  my  duty  to 
give  you  sixpence  of  it.  Did  you  not  take  care  of  me  when  all  the  world 
forsook  me,  and  treated  me  as  your  own  child  when  I  had  no  other  parent; 
and  shall  I  ever  forsake  you  in  your  old  age  !     Oh  never — never ! 

Mary.  Ay,  you  had  always  a  kind  heart  of  your  own.  I  always  used 
to  think  our  dear  Ned  would  some  time  or  other  prove  a  blessing  to  us. 

Harf.  You  must  leave  this  poor  hut,  that  is  not  fit  to  keep  out  the 
weather,  and  we  must  get  you  a  snug  cottage  in  this  village  or  some  other. 

John.  Pray,  my  dear  sir,  let  us  die  in  this  town,  as  we  have  always 
lived  in  it.  And  as  to  a  house,  I  believe  that  where  old  Richard  Carpenter 
used  to  live  in  is  empty,  if  it  would  not  be  too  good  for  us. 

Harf.  What,  the  white  cottage  on  the  green  ?  I  remember  it ;  it  is  just 
the  thing.     You  shall  remove  there  this  very  week. 

Mary.  This  is  beyond  all  my  hopes  and  wishes  ! 

Harf.  There  you  shall  have  a  little  close  to  keep  a  cow — and  a  girl  to 
milk  her,  and  take  care  of  you  both — and  a  garden  well  stocked  with  herbs 
and  roots — and  a  little  yard  for  pigs  and  poultry  ;  and  some  good  new 
furniture  for  your  house. 

John.  O,  too  much — too  much  ! 

Mary.  What  makes  me  cry  so,  when  so  many  good  things  are  coming 
to  us? 

Harf.  Who  is  the  landlord  of  this  house  ? 

John.  Our  next  neighbour,  Mr.  Wheatfield. 

Harf.  I'll  go  and  speak  about  it  directly  and  then  come  to  you  again. 
Come,  Beaumont.     God  bless  you  both  ! 

John.  God  in  heaven  bless  you  ! 

Mary.  O,  happy  day.     O,  happy  day  ! 


EVENING  XXIV. 


PERSEVERANCE  AGAINST  FORTUNE.— A  Story. 

Theodore  was  a  boy  of  lively  parts  and  engaging  manners;  but  he 
had  the  failing  of  being  extremely  impatient  in  his  temper  and  inclined 
to  extremes.  He  was  ardent  in  all  his  pursuits,  but  could  bear  no 
disappointment ;  and  if  the  least  thing  went  wrong,  he  threw  up  what 
he  was  about  in  a  pet,  and  could  not  be  prevailed  upon  to  resume  it.  His 
father,  Mr.  Carleton,  had  given  him  a  bed  in  the  garden,  which  he  had 
cultivated  with  great  delight.  The  borders  were  set  with  double  daisies 
of  different  colours,  next  to  which  was  a  row  of  auriculas  and  polyanthuses. 

287 


288  TWENTY-FOURTH    EVENING. 

Beyond  were  stocks  and  other  taller  flowers  and  shrubs ;  and  a  beautiful 
damask  rose  graced  the  centre.  This  rose  was  just  budding,  and  Theodore 
watched  its  daily  progress  with  great  interest.  One  unfortunate  day,  the 
door  of  the  garden  being  left  open,  a  drove  of  pigs  entered,  and  began  to 
riot  on  the  herbs  and  flowers.  An  alarm  being  sounded,  Theodore  and 
the  servant-boy  rushed  upon  them,  smacking  their  whips.  The  whole 
herd,  in  affright,  took  their  course  across  Theodore's  flower-bed,  on  which 
some  of  them  had  before  been  grazing.  Stocks,  daisies,  and  auriculas 
were  all  trampled  down  or  torn  up ;  and,  what  was  worst  of  all,  a  large 
old  sow  ran  directly  over  the  beautiful  rose-tree,  and  broke  off*  its  stem 
level  with  the  ground.  When  Theodore  came  up  and  beheld  all  the 
mischief,  and  especially  his  favourite  rose  strewed  on  the  soil,  rage  and 
grief  choked  his  utterance.  After  standing  a  while  the  picture  of  despair, 
he  snatched  up  a  spade  that  stood  near,  and  with  furious  haste  dug  over 
the  whole  bed,  and  whelmed  all  the  relics  of  his  flowers  deep  under  the 
soil.  This  exertion  being  ended,  he  burst  into  tears,  and  silently  left  the 
garden. 

His  father,  who  had  beheld  the  scene  at  a  distance,  though  somewhat 
diverted  at  the  boy's  childish  violence,  yet  began  seriously  to  reflect  on 
the  future  consequences  of  such  a  temper,  if  suffered  to  grow  up  without 
restraint.  He  said  nothing  to  him  at  the  time,  but  in  the  afternoon  he 
took  a  walk  with  him  into  a  neighbouring  parish.  There  was  a  large 
wild  common,  and  at  the  skirts  of  it  a  neat  farmhouse  with  fields  lying 
round  it,  all  well  fenced,  and  cultivated  in  the  best  manner.  The  air 
was  sweetened  with  the  bean-flower  and  clover.  An  orchard  of  fine 
young  fruit-trees  lay  behind  the  house  and  before  it  a  little  garden,  gay 
with  all  the  flowers  of  the  season.  A  stand  of  beehives  was  on  the 
southern  side,  sheltered  by  a  thick  hedge  of  honeysuckle  and  sweet-brier. 
The  farmyard  was  stocked  with  pigs  and  poultry.  A  herd  of  cows  with 
full  udders  was  just  coming  home  to  be  milked.  Everything  wore  the 
aspect  of  plenty  and  good  management.  The  charms  of  the  scene  struck 
Theodore  very  forcibly,  and  he  expressed  his  pleasure  in  the  warmest 
terms.  "This  place,"  said  his  father,  ^belongs  to  a  man  who  is  the 
greatest  example  I  know  of  patient  fortitude  bearing  up  against  misfortune ; 
and  all  that  you  see  is  the  reward  of  his  own  perseverance.  I  am  a  little 
acquainted  with  him;  and  we  will  go  in  and  beg  a  draught  of  milk,  and 
try  if  we  can  prevail  upon  him  to  tell  us  his  story."  Theodore  willingly 
accompanied  his  father.     They  were  received  by  the  farmer  with  cordial 


PERSEVERANCE    AGAINST    FORTUNE.  289 

frankness.  After  they  were  seated,  "  Mr.  Hardman,"  says  Mr.  Carleton, 
"  I  have  often  heard  part  of  your  adventures,  but  never  had  a  regular 
account  of  the  whole.  If  you  will  favour  me  and  my  little  boy  with  the 
story  of  them,  we  shall  think  ourselves  much  obliged  to  you." — "Lacka- 
day !  sir,"  said  he,  "  there  's  little  in  them  worth  telling  of,  as  far  as  I 
know.  I  have  had  my  ups  and  downs  in  the  world,  to  be  sure,  but  so 
have  many  men  besides.  However,  if  you  wish  to  hear  about  them,  they 
are  at  your  service;  and  I  ca'n't  say  but  it  gives  me  pleasure  sometimes 
to  talk  over  old  matters,  and  think  how  much  better  things  have  turned 
out  than  might  have  been  expected." — "Now  I  am  of  opinion,"  said  Mr. 
Carleton,  "that  from  your  spirit  and  perseverance  a  good  conclusion 
might  always  have  been  expected." — "  You  are  pleased  to  compliment, 
sir,"  replied  the  farmer;  "but  I  will  begin  without  more  words: — 

"You  may  perhaps  have  heard  that  my  father  was  a  man  of  good 
estate.  He  thought  of  nothing,  poor  man  !  but  how  to  spend  it;  and  he 
had  the  uncommon  luck  to  spend  it  twice  over.  For  when  he  was  obliged 
to  sell  it  the  first  time,  it  was  bought  in  by  a  relation,  who  left  it  him 
by  his  will.  But  my  poor  father  was  not  a  man  to  take  warning.  He  fell 
to  living  as  he  had  done  before,  and  just  made  his  estate  and  his  life  hold 
out  together.  He  died  at  the  age  of  five-and-forty,  and  left  his  family 
beggars.  I  believe  he  would  not  have  taken  to  drinking,  as  he  did,  had 
it  not  been  for  his  impatient  temper,  which  made  him  fret  and  vex  himselt 
for  every  trifle,  and  then  he  had  nothing  for  it  but  to  drown  his  care  in 
liquor. 

"  It  was  my  lot  to  be  taken  by  my  mother's  brother,  who  was  master  of 
a  merchant-ship.  I  served  him  as  an  apprentice  several  years,  and 
underwent  a  good  deal  of  the  usual  hardship  of  a  sailor's  life.  He  had 
just  made  me  his  mate  in  a  voyage  up  the  Mediterranean,  when  we  had 
the  misfortune  to  be  wrecked  on  the  coast  of  Morocco.  The  ship  struck  at 
some  distance  from  shore,  and  we  lay  a  long  stormy  night  with  the  waves 
dashing  over  us,  expecting  every  moment  to  perish.  My  uncle  and  several 
of  the  crew  died  of  fatigue  and  want,  and  by  morning  but  four  of  us  were 
left  alive.  My  companions  were  so  disheartened,  that  they  thought  of 
nothing  but  submitting  to  their  fate.  For  my  part  I  thought  life  still 
worth  struggling  for;  and  the  weather  having  become  calmer,  I  persuaded 
them  to  join  me  in  making  a  kind  of  raft,  by  the  help  of  which,  with  much 
toil  and  danger,  we  reached  the  land.  Here  we  were  seized  by  the 
barbarous  inhabitants,  and  carried  up  the  country  as  slaves  to  the  emperor 

13 


290  TWENTY-FOURTH    EVENING. 

We  were  employed  about  some  public  buildings,  made  to  work  very  hard 
with  the  whip  at  our  backs,  and  allowed  nothing  but  water  and  a  kind  of 
pulse.  I  have  heard  persons  talk  as  if  there  was  little  in  being  a  slave 
but  the  name ;  but  they  who  have  been  slaves  themselves  I  am  sure  will 
never  make  light  of  slavery  in  others.  A  ransom  was  set  on  our  heads, 
but  so  high,  that  it  seemed  impossible  for  poor  friendless  creatures  like  us 
ever  to  pay  it.  The  thought  of  perpetual  servitude,  together  with  the 
hard  treatment  we  met  with,  quite  overcame  my  poor  companions.  They 
drooped  and  died  one  after  another.  I  still  thought  it  not  impossible  to 
mend  my  condition,  and  perhaps  to  recover  my  freedom.  We  worked 
about  twelve  hours  in  the  day,  and  had  one  holyday  in  the  week.  I 
employed  my  leisure  time  in  learning  to  make  mats  and  flag-baskets,  in 
which  I  soon  became  so  expert  as  to  have  a  good  many  for  sale,  and 
thereby  got  a  little  money  to  purchase  better  food,  and  several  small 
conveniences.  We  were  afterward  set  to  work  in  the  emperor's  gardens ; 
and  here  I  showed  so  much  good  will  and  attention,  that  I  got  into  favour 
with  the  overseer.  He  had  a  large  garden  of  his  own ;  and  he  made 
interest  for  me  to  be  suffered  to  work  for  him  alone,  on  the  condition  of 
paying  a  man  to  do  my  duty.  I  soon  became  so  useful  to  him,  that  he 
treated  me  more  like  a  hired  servant  than  a  slave,  and  gave  me  regular 
wages.  I  learned  the  language  of  the  country,  and  I  might  have  passed 
my  time  comfortably  enough  could  I  have  accommodated  myself  to  their 
manners  and  religion,  and  forgotten  my  native  land.  I  saved  all  I  could 
in  order  to  purchase  my  freedom;  but  the  ransom  was  so  high,  that  I  had 
little  prospect  of  being  able  to  do  it  for  some  years  to  come.  A  circumstance, 
however,  happened  which  brought  it  about  at  once.  Some  villains  one 
night  laid  a  plot  to  murder  my  master  and  plunder  his  house.  I  slept 
in  a  little  shed  in  the  garden  where  the  tools  lay  ;  and  being  awaked  by  a 
noise,  I  saw  four  men  break  through  the  fence,  and  walk  up  an  alley 
toward  the  house.  I  crept  out  with  a  spade  in  my  hand,  and  silently 
followed  them.  They  made  a  hole  with  instruments  in  the  house-wall 
big  enough  for  a  man  to  enter  at.  Two  of  them  had  got  in,  and  the  third 
was  beginning  to  enter,  when  I  rushed  forward,  and  with  a  blow  of  my 
spade  clove  the  scull  of  one  of  the  robbers,  and  gave  the  other  such  a 
stroke  on  the  shoulder  as  disabled  him.  I  then  made  a  loud  outcry  to 
alarm  the  family.  My  master  and  his  son,  who  lay  in  the  house,  got  up, 
and  having  let  me  in,  we  secured  the  two  others,  after  a  sharp  conflict,  in 
which  I  received  a  severe  wound  with  a  dagger.     My  master,  who  looked 


PERSEVERANCE    AGAINST    FORTUNE.  291 

upon  me  as  his  preserver,  had  all  possible  care  taken  of  me,  and  as  soon 
as  I  was  cured  made  me  a  present  of  my  liberty.  He  would  fain  have 
kept  me  with  him,  but  my  mind  was  so  much  bent  on  returning  to  my 
native  country,  that  I  immediately  set  out  to  the  nearest  seaport,  and  took 
my  passage  in  a  vessel  going  to  Gibraltar. 

"  From  this  place  I  returned  in  the  first  ship  for  England.  As  soon  as 
we  arrived  in  the  Downs,  and  I  was  rejoicing  at  the  sight  of  the  white 
cliffs,  a  man-of-war's  boat  came  on  board,  and  pressed  into  the  king's 
service  all  of  us  who  were  seamen.  I  could  not  but  think  it  hard  that  this 
should  be  my  welcome  at  home  after  a  long  slavery,  but  there  was  no 
remedy.  I  resolved  to  do  my  duty  in  my  station,  and  leave  the  rest 
to  Providence.  I  was  abroad  during  the  remainder  of  the  war,  and  saw 
many  a  stout  fellow  sink  under  disease  and  despondence.  My  knowledge 
of  seamanship  got  me  promoted  to  the  post  of  a  petty  officer,  and  at  the 
peace  I  was  paid  off,  and  received  a  pretty  sum  for  wages  and  prize- 
money.  With  this  I  set  off  for  London.  I  had  experienced  too  much 
distress  from  want  to  be  inclined  to  squander  away  my  money,  so  I  put 
it  into  a  banker's  hands,  and  began  to  look  out  for  some  new  way  of  life. 

"Unfortunately,  there  were  some  things  of  which  I  had  no  more 
experience  than  a  child,  and  the  tricks  of  London  were  among  these.  An 
advertisement  offering  extraordinary  advantages  to  a  partner  in  a  com- 
mercial concern  who  could  bring  a  small  capital,  tempted  me  to  make 
inquiry  about  the  matter;  and  I  was  soon  cajoled  by  a  plausible  artful 
fellow  to  venture  my  whole  stock  in  it.  The  business  was  a  manufacture, 
about  which  I  knew  nothing  at  all;  but  as  I  was  not  afraid  of  my  labour, 
I  set  about  working  as  they  directed  me,  with  great  diligence,  and  thought 
all  was  going  on  prosperously.  One  morning,  on  coming  to  the  office,  I 
found  my  partners  decamped ;  and  the  same  day  I  was  arrested  for  a 
considerable  sum  due  by  the  partnership.  It  was  in  vain  for  me  to  think 
of  getting  bail,  so  I  was  obliged  to  go  to  prison.  Here  I  should  have  been 
half  starved,  but  for  my  Moorish  trade  of  matmaking,  by  the  help  of 
which  I  bettered  my  condition  for  some  months;  when  the  creditors, 
finding  that  nothing  could  be  got  out  of  me,  suffered  me  to  be  set  at  liberty. 

"  I  was  now  in  the  wide  world  without  a  farthing  or  a  friend,  but  I, 
thank  God,  had  limbs  and  health  left. 

"  I  did  not  choose  to  trust  the  sea  again,  but  preferred  my  other  new 
trade  of  gardening;  so  I  applied  to  a  nurseryman  near  town,  and  was 
received  as  a  day-labourer,     I  set  myself  cheerfully  at  work,  taking  care 


292  TWENTY-FOURTH    EVENING. 

to  be  in  the  grounds  the  first  man  in  the  morning,  and  the  last  at  night.  I 
acquainted  my  employer  with  all  the  practices  I  had  observed  in  Morocco, 
and  got  him,  in  return,  to  instruct  me  in  his  own.  In  time,  I  came  to  be 
considered  as  a  skilful  workman,  and  was  advanced  to  higher  wages.  My 
affairs  were  in  a  flourishing  state.  I  was  well  fed,  and  comfortably  lodged, 
and  saved  money  into  the  bargain.  About  this  time  I  fell  in  company 
with  a  young  woman  at  service,  very  notable  and  well  behaved,  who 
seemed  well  qualified  for  a  wife  to  a  working-man.  I  ventured  to  make 
an  offer  to  her,  which  proved  not  disagreeable ;  and  after  we  had  calculated 
a  little  how  we  were  to  live,  we  married.  I  took  a  cottage  with  an  acre 
or  two  of  land  to  it,  and  my  wife's  saving  furnished  our  house,  and  bought 
a  cow.  All  my  leisure  time  I  spent  upon  my  piece  of  ground,  which 
I  made  very  productive,  and  the  profits  of  my  cow,  with  my  wages, 
supported  us  very  well.  No  mortal,  I  think,  could  be  happier  than  I  was 
after  a  hard  day's  work,  by  my  own  fireside,  with  my  wife  beside  me,  and 
our  little  infant  on  my  knee. 

"  After  this  way  of  life  had  lasted  two  or  three  years,  a  gentleman  who 
had  dealt  largely  with  my  master  for  young  plants,  asked  him  if  he  could 
recommend  an  honest  industrious  man  for  a  tenant,  upon  some  land  that 
he  had  lately  taken  in  from  the  sea.  My  master,  willing  to  do  me  a 
kindness,  mentioned  me.  I  was  tempted  by  the  proposal,  and  going  down 
to  view  the  premises,  I  took  a  farm  upon  a  lease  at  a  low  rent,  and  removed 
my  family  and  goods  to  it,  one  hundred  and  fifty  miles  from  London. 
There  was  ground  enough  for  money,  but  much  was  left  to  be  done  for  it 
in  draining,  manuring,  and  fencing.  Then  it  required  more  stock  than  I 
was  able  to  furnish ;  so,  though  unwilling,  I  was  obliged  to  borrow  some 
money  of  my  landlord,  who  let  me  have  it  at  a  moderate  interest.  I  began 
with  a  good  heart,  and  worked  late  and  early  to  put  things  into  the  best 
condition.  My  first  misfortune  was  that  the  place  proved  unhealthy  to  us. 
I  fell  into  a  lingering  ague,  which  pulled  me  down  much,  and  hindered 
my  business.  My  wife  got  a  slow  fever,  and  so  did  our  eldest  child  (we 
had  now  two.)  The  poor  child  died ;  and  what  with  grief  and  illness, 
my  wife  had  much  ado  to  recover.  Then  the  rot  got  among  my  sheep, 
and  carried  off  the  best  part  of  my  stock.  I  bore  up  against  distress  as 
well  as  I  could;  and  by  the  kindness  of  my  landlord,  was  enabled  to 
bring  things  tolerably  about  again.  We  regained  our  health,  and  began 
to  be  seasoned  to  the  climate.  As  we  were  cheering  ourselves  with  the 
prospect  of  better  times,  a  dreadful  storm  arose — it  was  one  night  in 


PERSEVERANCE    AGAINST    FORTUNE.  293 

February — I  shall  never  forget  it — and  drove  the  spring  tide  with  such 
fury  against  our  sea-banks,  that  they  gave  way.  The  water  rushed  in 
with  such  force,  that  all  was  presently  a  sea.  Two  hours  before  daylight 
I  was  awakened  by  the  noise  of  the  waves  dashing  against  our  house,  and 
bursting  in  at  the  door.  My  wife  and  I  and  the  two  children  (the  younger 
but  four  weeks  old)  slept  on  a  ground  floor.  We  had  just  time  to  carry 
the  children  up  stairs,  before  all  was  afloat  in  the  room.  When  day 
appeared,  we  could  see  nothing  from  the  windows  but  water.  All  the 
outhouses,  ricks,  and  utensils  were  swept  away,  and  all  the  cattle  and 
sheep  drowned.  The  sea  kept  rising,  and  the  force  of  the  current  bore 
so  hard  against  our  house,  that  we  thought  every  moment  it  must 
fall.  We  clasped  our  babies  to  our  breasts,  and  expected  nothing  but 
present  death.  At  length,  we  spied  a  boat  coming  to  us.  With  a  good 
deal  of  difficulty  it  got  under  our  window,  and  took  us  m  with  a  servant- 
maid  and  boy.  A  few  clothes  was  all  the  property  we  saved;  and  we 
had  not  left  the  house  half  an  hour,  before  it  fell,  and  in  a  minute  nothing 
was  to  be  seen  of  it.  Not  only  the  farmhouse,  but  the  farm  itself  was 
gone. 

"  I  was  now  again  a  ruined  man,  and,  what  was  worse,  I  had  three 
partners  in  my  ruin.  My  wife  and  I  looked  at  one  another,  and  then  at 
our  little  ones,  and  wept.  Neither  of  us  had  a  word  of  comfort  to  say. 
At  last,  thought  I,  this  country  is  not  Morocco,  however.  Here  are  good 
souls  that  will  pity  our  case,  and  perhaps  relieve  us.  Then  I  have  a 
character,  and  a  pair  of  hands.  Things  are  bad  but  they  might  have  been 
worse.  I  took  my  wife  by  the  hand,  and  knelt  down.  She  did  the  same. 
I  thanked  God  for  his  mercy  in  saving  our  lives,  and  prayed  that  he  would 
continue  to  protect  us.  We  rose  up  with  lightened  hearts,  and  were  able 
to  talk  calmly  about  our  condition.  It  was  my  desire  to  return  to  my 
former  master,  the  nurseryman ;  but  how  to  convey  my  family  so  far 
without  money  was  the  difficulty.  Indeed  I  was  much  worse  than 
nothing,  for  I  owed  a  good  deal  to  my  landlord.  He  came  down  upon 
the  news  of  the  misfortune,  and  though  his  own  losses  were  heavy,  he 
not  only  forgave  my  debt  and  released  me  from  all  obligations,  but  made 
me  a  small  present.  Some  charitable  neighbours  did  the  like ;  but  I  was 
most  of  all  affected  by  the  kindness  of  our  late  maid-servant,  who  insisted 
upon  our  accepting  of  a  crown  which  she  had  saved  out  of  her  wages. 
Poor  soul !  we  had  always  treated  her  like  one  of  ourselves,  and  she  felt  for 
us  like  one. 


294  TWENTY-FOURTH    EVENING. 

"As  soon  as  we  had  got  some  necessaries,  and  the  weather  was  tolerable, 
we  set  out  on  our  long  march.  My  wife  carried  her  infant  in  her  arms. 
I  took  the  bigger  child  on  my  back,  and  a  bundle  of  clothes  in  my  hand. 
We  could  walk  but  a  few  miles  a  day,  but  we  now  and  then  got  a  lift  in 
an  empty  wagon  or  cart,  which  was  a  great  help  to  us.  One  day  we 
met  with  a  farmer  returning  with  his  team  from  market,  who  let.  me  ride, 
and  entered  into  conversation  with  me.  I  told  him  of  my  adventures,  by 
which  he  seemed  much  interested ;  and  learning  that  I  was  skilled  in 
managing  trees,  he  acquainted  me  that  a  nobleman  in  his  neighbourhood 
was  making  great  plantations,  and  would  very  likely  be  glad  to  engage 
me  ;  and  he  offered  to  carry  us  to  the  place.  As  all  I  was  seeking  was  a 
living  by  my  labour,  I  thought  the  sooner  I  got  it  the  better ;  so  I  thank- 
fully accepted  his  offer.  He  took  us  to  the  nobleman's  steward,  and  made 
known  our  case.  The  steward  wrote  to  my  old  master  for  a  character; 
and  receiving  a  favourable  one,  he  hired  me  as  a  principal  manager  of  a 
new  plantation,  and  settled  me  and  my  family  in  a  snug  cottage  near  it. 
He  advanced  us  somewhat  for  furniture  and  present  subsistence,  and  we 
had  once  more  a  home.  O  sir !  how  many  blessings  are  contained  in  that 
word  to  those  who  have  known  the  want  of  it ! 

"  I  entered  upon  my  new  employment  with  as  much  satisfaction  as  if  I 
was  taking  possession  of  an  estate.  My  wife  had  enough  to  do  in  taking 
care  of  the  house  and  children ;  so  it  lay  with  me  to  provide  for  all,  and 
I  may  say  that  I  was  not  idle.  Besides  my  weekly  pay  from  the  steward, 
I  contrived  to  make  a  little  money  at  leisure  times  by  pruning  and 
dressing  gentlemen's  fruit-trees.  I  was  allowed  a  piece  of  waste  ground 
behind  the  house  for  a  garden,  and  I  spent  a  good  deal  of  labour  in  bring- 
ing it  into  order.  My  old  master  sent  me  down  for  a  present  some  choice 
young  trees  and  flower-roots,  which  I  planted,  and  they  throve  wonder- 
fully. Things  went  on  almost  as  well  as  I  could  desire.  The  situation 
being  dry  and  healthy,  my  wife  recovered  her  lost  bloom,  and  the  children 
sprung  up  like  my  plants.  I  began  to  hope  that  I  was  almost  out  of  the 
reach  of  further  misfortune ;  but  it  was  not  so  ordered. 

"  I  had  been  three  years  in  this  situation,  and  increased  my  family  with 
another  child,  when  my  lord  died.  He  was  succeeded  by  a  very  dissipated 
young  man,  deep  in  debt,  who  presently  put  a  stop  to  the  planting  and 
improving  of  the  estate,  and  sent  orders  to  turn  off  all  the  workmen.  This 
was  a  great  blow  to  me  ;  however,  I  still  hoped  to  be  allowed  to  keep  my 
little  house  and  garden,  and  I  thought  I  could  then  maintain  myself  as  a 


PERSEVERANCE    AGAINST   FORTUNE.  295 

nurseryman  and  gardener.  But  a  new  steward  was  sent  down,  with 
directions  to  rack  the  tenants  to  the  utmost.  He  asked  me  as  much  rent 
for  the  place  as  if  I  had  found  the  garden  ready  made  to  my  hands ;  and 
when  I  told  him  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  pay  it,  he  gave  me  notice  to 
quit  immediately.  He  would  neither  suffer  me  to  take  away  my  trees 
and  plants,  nor  allow  me  anything  for  them.  His  view,  I  found,  was  to 
put  in  a  favourite  of  his  own,  and  set  him  up  at  my  expense.  I  remon- 
strated against  this  cruel  injustice,  but  could  obtain  nothing  but  hard  words. 
As  I  saw  it  would  be  the  ruin  of  me  to  be  turned  out  in  that  manner,  I 
determined,  rather  hastily,  to  go  up  to  London,  and  plead  my  cause  with 
my  new  lord.  I  took  a  sorrowful  leave  of  my  family,  and  walking  to  the 
next  market-town,  I  got  a  place  on  the  outside  of  the  stage-coach.  When 
we  were  within  thirty  or  forty  miles  of  London,  the  coachman  overturned 
the  carriage,  and  I  pitched  directly  on  my  head,  and  was  taken  up  sense- 
less. Nobody  knew  anything  about  me ;  so  I  was  carried  to  the  next 
village,  where  the  overseer  had  me  taken  to  the  parish  workhouse.  Here 
I  lay  a  fortnight,  much  neglected,  before  I  came  to  my  senses.  As  soon 
as  I  became  sensible  of  my  condition,  I  was  almost  distracted  in  thinking 
of  the  distress  of  my  poor  wife,  who  was  near  lying-in,  must  be  under  on 
my  account,  not  hearing  anything  of  me.  I  lay  another  fortnight  before 
I  was  fit  to  travel,  for  besides  the  hurt  on  my  head,  I  had  a  broken  collar- 
bone, and  several  bruises. 

"  My  money  had  somehow  all  got  out  of  my  pocket,  and  I  had  no  other 
means  of  getting  away  than  by  being  passed  to  my  own  parish.  I  returned 
in  sad  plight,  indeed,  and  found  my  wife  very  ill  in  bed.  My  children 
were  crying  about  her,  and  almost  starving.  We  should  now  have  been 
quite  lost,  had  I  not  raised  a  little  money  by  selling  our  furniture;  for  I 
was  yet  unable  to  work.  As  soon  as  my  wife  was  somewhat  recovered, 
we  were  forced  to  quit  our  house.  I  cried  like  a  child  on  leaving  my 
blooming  garden  and  flourisning  plantations,  and  was  almost  tempted  to 
demolish  them,  rather  than  that  another  should  unjustly  reap  the  fruit  of 
my  labours.  But  I  checked  myself  and  I  am  glad  that  I  did.  We  took 
lodgings  in  a  neighbouring  village,  and  I  went  round  among  the  gentle- 
men of  the  country  to  see  if  I  could  get  a  little  employment.  In  the 
meantime,  the  former  steward  came  down  to  settle  accounts  with  his 
successor,  and  was  much  concerned  to  find  me  in  such  a  situation.  He 
was  a  very  able  and  honest  man,  and  had  been  engaged  by  another 
nobleman  to  superintend  a  large  improvable  estate,  in  a  distant  part  of 


296  TWENTY-FOURTH    EVENING. 

the  kingdom.  He  told  me,  if  I  would  try  my  fortune  with  him  once 
more  he  would  endeavour  to  procure  me  a  new  settlement.  I  had  nothing 
to  lose,  and,  therefore,  was  willing  enough  to  run  any  hazard,  but  I  was 
destitute  of  means  to  convey  my  family  to  such  a  distance.  My  good 
friend,  who  was  much  provoked  at  the  injustice  of  the  new  steward,  said 
so  much  to  him,  that  he  brought  him  to  make  me  an  allowance  for  my 
garden  ;  and  with  that  I  was  enabled  to  make  another  removal.  It  was 
to  the  place  I  now  inhabit. 

"  When  I  came  here,  sir,  all  this  farm  was  a  naked  common  like  that 
you  crossed  in  coming.  My  lord  got  an  enclosure-bill  for  his  part  of  it, 
and  the  steward  divided  it  into  different  farms,  and  let  it  on  improving 
leases  to  several  tenants.  A  dreary  spot  to  be  sure  it  looked  at  first,  enough 
to  sink  a  man's  heart  to  sit  down  upon  it.  I  had  a  little  unfinished  cottage 
given  me  to  live  in ;  and  as  I  had  nothing  to  stock  a  farm,  I  was  for  some 
years  employed  as  head  labourer  and  planter  about  the  new  enclosures. 
By  very  hard  working  and  saving,  together  with  a  little  help,  I  was  at 
length  enabled  to  take  a  small  part  of  the  ground  I  now  occupy.  I  had 
various  discouragements,  from  bad  seasons  and  other  accidents.  One  year 
the  distemper  carried  off  four  out  of  seven  cows  that  I  kept ;  another  year 
I  lost  two  of  my  best  horses.  A  high  wind  once  almost  entirely  destroyed 
an  orchard  I  had  just  planted,  and  blew  down  my  biggest  barn.  But  I 
was  too  much  used  to  misfortunes  to  be  easily  disheartened,  and  my  way 
always  was  to  set  about  repairing  them  in  the  best  manner  I  could,  and 
leave  the  rest  to  Heaven.  This  method  seems  to  have  answered  at  last. 
I  have  now  gone  on  many  years  in  a  course  of  continued  prosperity,  adding 
field  to  field,  increasing  my  stock,  and  bringing  up  a  numerous  family  with 
credit.  My  dear  wife,  who  was  my  faithful  partner  through  so  much 
distress,  continues  to  share  my  prosperous  state ;  and  few  couples  in  the 
kingdom,  I  believe,  have  more  cause  to  be  thankful  for  their  lot.  This, 
sir,  is  my  history.  You  see  it  contains  nothing  very  extraordinary  ;  but 
if  it  impresses  on  the  mind  of  this  young  gentleman  the  maxim  that 
patience  and  perseverance  will  scarcely  fail  of  a  good  issue  in  the  end, 
the  time  you  have  spent  in  listening  to  it  will  not  entirely  be  lost." 

Mr.  Carleton  thanked  the  good  farmer  very  heartily  for  the  amusement 
and  instruction  he  had  afforded  them,  and  took  leave  with  many  expres- 
sions of  regard.  Theodore  and  he  walked  home,  talking  by  the  way  of 
what  they  had  heard. 

Next  morning,  Mr.  C.  looking  out  of  the  window,  saw  Theodore  hard 


THE    GOLDFINCH    AND    LINNET.  297 

at  work  in  his  garden.  He  was  carefully  disinterring  his  buried  flowers, 
trimming  and  cleaning  them,  and  planting  them  anew.  He  had  got  the 
gardener  to  cut  a  slip  of  the  broken  rose-tree,  and  set  it  in  the  middle  to 
give  it  a  chance  of  growing.  By  noon  everything  was  laid  smooth  and 
neat,  and  the  bed  was  well  filled.  All  its  splendour,  indeed,  was  gone 
for  the  present,  but  it  seemed  in  a  hopeful  way  to  revive  again.  Theodore 
looked  with  pleasure  over  his  work :  but  his  father  felt  more  pleasure  in 
witnessing  the  first-fruits  of  Farmer  Hardman's  story. 


THE  GOLDFINCH  AND  LINNET. 

A  gaudy  goldfinch,  pert  and  gay, 
Hopping  blythe  from  spray  to  spray, 
Full  of  frolic,  full  of  spring, 
With  head  well  plumed  and  burnished  wing, 
Spied  a  sober  linnet-hen, 
Sitting  all  alone, 

And  bowed  and  chirped,  and  bowed  again ; 
And  with  familiar  tone 
He  thus  the  dame  addressed 
As  to  her  side  he  closely  pressed  : — 

"  I  hope,  my  dear,  I  do  n't  intrude, 
By  breaking  on  your  solitude  ? 
But  it  has  always  been  my  passion 
To  forward  pleasant  conversation  ; 
And  I  should  be  a  stupid  bird 
To  pass  the  fair  without  a  word ; 
I,  who  have  been  for  ever  noted 
To  be  the  sex's  most  devoted. 
Besides,  a  damsel  unattended, 
Left  unnoticed  and  unfriended, 
Appears  (excuse  me)  so  forlorn, 
That  I  can  scarce  suppose, 
To  any  she  that  e'er  was  born, 
'T  would  be  the  thing  she  chose. 
How  happy,  then,  I  'm  now  at  leisure 
To  wait  upon  a  lady's  pleasure; 
13* 


TWENTY-FOURTH    EVENING. 

And  all  this  morn  have  nought  to  do 
But  pay  my  duty,  love,  to  you. 

"  What,  silent !— -Ah,  those  looks  demure, 
And  eyes  of  langour,  make  me  sure 
That  in  my  random  idle  chatter 
I  quite  mistook  the  matter  ! 
It  is  not  spleen  or  contemplation 
That  draws  you  to  the  cover ; 
But  'tis  some  tender  assignation; 
Well ! — who's  the  favoured  lover? 
I  met  hard  by,  in  quaker  suit, 
A  youth  sedately  grave  and  mute; 
And  from  the  maxim,  like  to  like, 
Perhaps  the  sober  youth  might  strike  : 
Yes,  yes,  'tis  he,  I'll  lay  my  life, 
Who  hopes  to  get  you  for  his  wife. 

"  But  come,  my  dear,  I  know  you're  wise, 
Compare  and  judge,  and  use  your  eyes; 
No  female  yet  could  e'er  behold 
The  lustre  of  my  red  and  gold, 
My  ivory  bill  and  jetty  crest, 
But  all  was  done,  and  I  was  blest. 
Come,  brighten  up  and  act  with  spirit, 
And  take  the  fortune  that  you  merit." 

He  ceased — Linnetta  thus  replied, 
With  cool  contempt  and  decent  pride : — 
"  'T  is  pity,  sir,  a  youth  so  sweet, 
In  form  and  manners  so  complete, 
Should  do  an  humble  maid  the  honour 
To  waste  his  precious  time  upon  her. 
A  poor  forsaken  she,  you  know, 
Can  do  no  credit  to  a  beau ; 
And  worse  would  be  the  case 
If  meeting  one  whose  faith  was  plighted, 
He  should  incur  the  sad  disgrace 
Of  being  slighted. 


THE    GOLDFINCH    AND   LINNET.  299 

"  Now,  sir,  the  sober-suited  youth, 
Whom  you  were  pleased  to  mention, 
To  those  small  merits,  sense  and  truth. 
And  generous  love,  has  some  pretension ; 
And  then,  to  give  him  all  his  due, 
He  sings,  sir,  full  as  well  as  you, 
And  sometimes  can  be  silent  too. 
In  short,  my  taste  is  so  perverse, 
And  such  my  wayward  fate, 
That  it  would  be  my  greatest  curse 
To  have  a  coxcomb  to  my  mate." 
This  said,  away  she  scuds, 
And  leaves  Beau  Goldfinch  in  the  suds. 


The  Wanderer's  Return,  p.  304. 

EVENING  XXV. 


THE  PRICE  OF  A  VICTORY. 

"  Good  news !  great  news !  glorious  news  !"  cried  young  Oswald,  as 
he  entered  his  father's  house.  "  We  have  got  a  complete  victory,  and  have 
killed  I  do  n't  know  how  many  thousands  of  the  enemy ;  and  we  are  to 
have  bonfires  and  illuminations  !" 

"And  so,"  said  his  father,  "you  think  that  ki-ling  a  great  many 
thousands  of  human  creatures  is  a  thing  to  be  very  glad  about  ?" 

Oswald.  No — I  do  not  quite  think  so,  neither :  but  surely  it  is  right  to 
be  glad  that  our  country  has  gained  a  great  advantage. 

300 


PRICE    OF    A    VICTORY.  301 

Father.  No  doubt,  it  is  right  to  wish  well  to  our  country,  as  far  as 
its  prosperity  can  be  promoted  without  injuring  the  rest  of  mankind.  But 
wars  are  very  seldom  to  the  real  advantage  of  any  nation  ;  and  when  they 
are  ever  so  useful  or  necessary,  so  many  dreadful  evils  attend  them,  that 
a  humane  man  will  scarcely  rejoice  in  them,  if  he  considers  at  all  on  the 
subject. 

Os.  But  if  our  enemies  would  do  us  a  great  deal  of  mischief,  and  we 
prevent  it  by  beating  them,  have  we  not  a  right  to  be  glad  of  it  1 

Fa.  Alas !  we  are  in  general  little  judges  which  of  the  parties  has  the 
most  mischievous  intentions.  Commonly,  they  are  both  in  the  wrong, 
and  success  will  make  both  of  them  unjust  and  unreasonable.  But  putting 
this  out  of  the  question,  he  who  rejoices  in  the  event  of  a  battle,  rejoices 
in  the  misery  of  many  thousands  of  his  species;  and  the  thought  of  that 
should  make  him  pause  a  little.  Suppose  a  surgeon  were  to  come  with  a 
smiling  countenance,  and  tell  us  triumphantly  that  he  had  cut  off  half  a 
dozen  legs  to  day,  what  would  you  think  of  him  ? 

Os.  I  should  think  him  very  hardhearted. 

Fa.  And  yet  those  operations  are  done  for  the  benefit  of  the  sufferers, 
and  by  their  own  desire.  But  in  a  battle,  the  probability  is,  that  none  of 
those  engaged  on  either  side  have  any  interest  at  all  in  the  cause  they  are 
fighting  for,  and  most  of  them  come  there  because  they  cannot  help  it.  In 
this  battle  that  you  are  so  rejoiced  about,  there  have  been  ten  thousand 
men  killed  on  the  spot,  and  nearly  as  many  wounded. 

Os.  On  both  sides  ? 

Fa.  Yes — but  they  are  men  on  hoth  sides.  Consider  now,  that  the  ten 
thousand  sent  cut  of  the  world  in  this  morning's  work,  though  they  are 
past  feeling  themselves,  have  left  probably  two  persons  each,  on  an 
average,  to  lament  their  loss,  parents,  wives,  or  children.  Here  are  then 
twenty  thousand  people  made  unhappy,  at  one  stroke  on  their  account. 
This,  however,  is  hardly  so  dreadful  to  think  of,  as  the  condition  of  the 
wounded.  At  the  moment  we  are  talking,  eight  or  ten  thousand  more 
are  lying  in  agony,  torn  with  shot,  or  gashed  with  cuts,  their  wounds  all 
festering,  some  hourly  to  die  a  most  excruciating  death,  others  to  linger 
in  torture  weeks  and  months,  and  many  doomed  to  drag  on  a  miserable 
existence  for  the  rest  of  their  lives,  with  diseased  and  mutilated  bodies. 

Os.  This  is  shocking  to  think  of,  indeed  ! 

Fa.  When  you  light  your  candles,  then,  this  evening,  think  what  they 
cost. 


302  TWENTY-FIFTH    EVENING. 

Os.  But  everybody  else  is  glad,  and  seems  to  think  nothing  of  these 
things. 

Fa.  True — they  do  not  think  of  them.  If  they  did,  I  cannot  suppose 
they  would  be  so  void  of  feeling  as  to  enjoy  themselves  in  merriment 
when  so  many  of  their  fellow-creatures  are  made  miserable.  Do  you  not 
remember,  when  poor  Dickens  had  his  legs  broken  to  pieces  by  a  loaded 
wagon,  how  all  the  town  pitied  him  ? 

Os.  Yes,  very  well.  I  could  not  sleep  the  night  after  for  thinking  oi 
nim. 

Fa.  But  here  are  thousands  suffering  as  much  as  he,  and  we  scarce 
bestow  a  single  thought  on  them.  If  any  one  of  these  poor  creatures  were 
before  our  eyes,  we  should  probably  feel  much  more  than  we  do  now  for 
them  altogether.  Shall  I  tell  you  a  story  of  a  soldier's  fortune,  that  came 
to  my  own  knowledge  ? 

Os.  Yes ;  pray,  do. 

Fa.  In  the  village  where  I  went  to  school,  there  was  an  honest  indus- 
trious weaver  and  his  wife,  who  had  an  only  son,  named  Walter,  just 
come  to  man's  estate.  Walter  was  a  good  and  dutiful  lad,  and  a  clever 
workman,  so  that  he  was  a  great  help  to  his  parents.  One  unlucky  day, 
having  gone  to  the  next  market-town  with  some  work,  he  met  with  a 
companion,  who  took  him  to  the  alehouse  and  treated  him.  As  he  was 
coming  away,  a  recruiting  sergeant  entered  the  room,  who  seeing  Walter 
to  be  a  likely  young  fellow,  had  a  great  mind  to  entrap  him.  He  persuaded 
him  to  sit  down  again  and  take  a  glass  with  him ;  and  kept  him  in  talk 
with  fine  stories  about  a  soldier's  life,  till  Walter  got  fuddled  before  he 
was  aware.  The  sergeant  then  clapped  a  shilling  into  his  hand  to  drink 
his  majesty's  health,  and  told  him  he  was  enlisted.  He  was  kept  there 
all  night,  and  next  morning  was  taken  before  a  magistrate  to  be  sworn  in. 
Walter  had  now  become  sober,  and  was  very  sorry  for  what  he  had  done : 
but  he  was  told  that  he  could  not  get  off  without  paying  a  guinea  smart 
money.  This  he  knew  not  how  to  raise  ;  and  being  likewise  afraid  and 
ashamed  to  face  his  friends,  he  took  the  oath  and  bounty-money,  and 
marched  away  with  the  sergeant,  without  ever  returning  home.  His  poor 
father  and  mother,  when  they  heard  of  the  affair,  were  almost  heart- 
broken ;  and  a  young  woman  in  the  village,  who  was  his  sweetheart,  had 
like  to  have  gone  distracted.  Walter  sent  them  a  line  from  the  first  stage, 
to  bid  them  farewell,  and  comfort  them.  He  joined  his  regiment,  which 
soon  embarked  for  Germany,  where  it  continued  till  the  peace.     Walter 


PRICE    OF    A   VICTORY.  303 

once  or  twice  sent  word  home  of  his  welfare,  but  for  the  last  year  nothing 
was  heard  of  him. 

Os.  Where  was  he  then  ? 

Fa.  You  shall  hear.  One  summer's  evening,  a  man  in  an  old  red  coat, 
hobbling  on  crutches,  was  seen  to  enter  the  village.  His  countenance 
was  pale  and  sickly,  his  cheeks  hollow,  and  his  whole  appearance  bespoke 
extreme  wretchedness.  Several  people  gathered  round  him,  looking 
earnestly  in  his  face.  Among  these  a  young  woman  having  gazed  at  him 
a  while,  cried  out,  "  My  Walter !"  and  fainted  away.  Walter  fell  on  the 
ground  beside  her.  His  father  and  mother  being  fetched  by  some  of  the 
spectators,  came  and  took  him  in  their  arms,  weeping  bitterly.  I  saw  the 
whole  scene,  and  shall  never  forget  it.  At  length,  the  neighbours  helped 
them  into  the  house,  where  Walter  told  them  the  following  story : — 

"  At  the  last  great  battle  that  our  troops  gained  in  Germany,  I  was 
among  the  first  engaged,  and  received  a  shot  that  broke  my  thigh.  I  fell, 
and  presently  after  our  regiment  was  forced  to  retreat.  A  squadron  of  the 
enemy's  horse  came  galloping  down  upon  us.  A  trooper  making  a  blow 
at  me  with  his  sabre  as  I  lay,  I  lifted  up  my  arm  to  save  my  head,  and 
got  a  cut  which  divided  all  the  sinews  at  the  back  of  my  wrist.  Soon 
after  the  enemy  were  driven  back,  and  came  across  us  again.  A  horse 
set  his  foot  on  my  side,  and  broke  three  of  my  ribs.  The  action  was 
long  and  bloody,  and  the  wounded  on  both  sides  were  left  on  the  field 
all  night.  A  dreadful  night  it  was  to  me  you  may  think  !  I  had  fainted 
through  loss  of  blood,  and  when  I  recovered,  1  was  tormented  with  thirst, 
and  the  cold  air  made  my  wounds  smart  intolerably.  About  noon  next 
day  wagons  came  to  carry  away  those  who  remained  alive  ;  and  I,  with 
a  number  of  others,  was  put  into  one  to  be  conveyed  to  the  next  town. 
The  motion  of  the  carriage  was  terrible  for  my  broken  bones — every  jolt 
went  to  my  heart.  We  were  taken  to  an  hospital,  which  was  crammed  as 
full  as  it  could  hold ;  and  we  should  all  have  been  suffocated  with  the 
heat  and  stench,  had  not  a  fever  broke  out,  which  soon  thinned  our 
numbers.  I  took  it,  and  was  twice  given  over ;  however,  I  struggled 
through.  But  my  wounds  proved  so  difficult  to  heal,  that  it  was  almost  a 
twelvemonth  before  I  could  be  discharged.  A  great  deal  of  the  bone  in 
my  thigh  came  away  in  splinters,  and  left  the  limb  crooked  and  useless  as 
you  see.  I  entirely  lost  the  use  of  three  fingers  of  my  right  hand  ;  and 
mv  broken  ribs  made  me  spit  blood  a  long  time,  and  have  left  a  cough  and 
difficulty  of  breathing,  which  I  believe  will  bring  me  to  my  grave.    I  was 


304  TWENTY-FIFTH    EVENING. 

sent  home,  and  discharged  from  the  army,  and  I  have  begged  my  way 
hither  as  well  as  I  could.  I  am  told  that  the  peace  has  left  the  affairs  of 
my  country  just  as  they  were  before;  but  who  will  restore  me  my  health 
and  limbs?  lam  put  on  the  list  for  a  Chelsea  pensioner,  which  will 
support  me,  if  I  live  to  receive  it,  without  being  a  burden  to  my  friends^ 
That  is  all  that  remains  for  Walter  now." 

Os.  Poor  Walter !     What  became  of  him  afterward  ? 

Father.  The  wound  in  his  thigh  broke  out  afresh,  and  discharged  more 
splinters  after  a  great  deal  of  pain  and  fever.  As  winter  came  on,  his 
cough  increased.  He  wasted  to  a  skeleton,  and  died  the  next  spring. 
The  young  woman,  his  sweetheart,  sat  up  with  him  every  night  to  the 
last;  and  soon  after  his  death,  she  fell  into  a  consumption,  and  followed 
him.  The  old  people,  deprived  of  the  stay  and  comfort  of  their  age,  fell 
into  despair  and  poverty,  and  were  taken  into  the  workhouse,  where  they 
ended  their  days. 

This  was  the  history  of  Walter  the  soldier.  It  has  been  that  of  thou- 
sands more  ;  and  will  be  that  of  many  a  poor  fellow,  over  whose  fate  you 
are  now  rejoicing.     Such  is  the  price  of  a  victory  ! 

GOOD  COMPANY. 

"Be  sure,  Frederick,  always  keep  good  company,"  was  the  final 
admonition  of  Mr.  Lofty,  on  dismissing  his  son  to  the  University. 

"  I  entreat  you,  Henry,  always  to  choose  good  company,"  said  Mr. 
Manly,  on  parting  with  his  son  to  an  apprenticeship  in  a  neighbouring  town. 

But  it  was  impossible  for  two  people  to  mean  more  differently  by  the 
same  words. 

In  Mr.  Lofty 's  idea,  good  company  was  that  of  persons  superior  to 
ourselves  in  rank  and  fortune.  By  this  alone  he  estimated  it :  and  the 
degrees  of  comparison,  better  and  best,  were  made  exactly  to  correspond 
to  such  a  scale.  Thus,  if  an  esquire  was  good  company,  a  baronet  was 
better,  and  a  lord  best  of  all,  provided  that  he  was  not  a  poor  lord,  for  in 
that  case,  a  rich  gentleman  might  be  at  least  as  good.  For  as,  according 
to  Mr.  Lofty's  maxim,  the  great  purpose  for  which  companions  were  to  be 
chosen  was  to  advance  a  young  man  in  the  world  by  their  credit  and 
interest,  those  were  to  be  preferred  who  afforded  the  best  prospects  in  this 
respect. 

Mr.  Manly,  on  the  other  hand,  understood  by  good  companv,  that  which 


GOOD    COMPANY.  305 

was  improving  to  the  morals  and  understanding;  and  by  the  best,  that 
which,  to  a  high  degree  of  these  qualities,  added  true  politeness  of  man- 
ners. As  superior  advantages  in  education  to  a  certain  point  accompany 
superiority  of  condition,  he  wished  his  son  to  prefer  as  companions  those 
whose  situation  in  life  had  afforded  them  the  opportunity  of  being  well 
educated  ;  but  he  was  far  from  desiring  him  to  shun  connexions  with  worth 
and  talents,  wherever  he  should  find  them. 

Mr.  Lofty  had  an  utter  aversion  to  low  company,  by  which  he  meant 
inferiors,  people  of  no  fashion  and  figure,  shabby  fellows  whom  nobody 
knows. 

Mr.  Manly  equally  disliked  low  company,  understanding  by  it  persons 
of  mean  habits  and  vulgar  conversation. 

A  great  part  of  Mr.  Manly's  good  company  was  Mr.  Lofty's  low  com- 
pany ;  and  not  a  few  of  Mr.  Lofty's  very  best  company  were  Mr.  Manly's 
very  worst. 

Each  of  the  sons  understood  his  father's  meaning,  and  followed  his 
advice. 

Frederick,  from  the  time  of  his  entrance  at  the  University,  commenced 
what  is  called  a  tuft-hunter,  from  the  tuft  in  the  cap  worn  by  young 
noblemen.  He  took  pains  to  insinuate  himself  into  the  good  graces  of  all 
the  young  men  of  high  fashion  in  his  college,  and  became  a  constant 
companion  in  their  schemes  of  frolic  and  dissipation.  They  treated  him 
with  an  insolent  familiarity,  often  bordering  upon  contempt;  but  following 
another  maxim  of  his  father,  "  one  must  stoop  to  rise,"  he  took  it  all  in 
good  part.  He  totally  neglected  study  as  unnecessary,  and  indeed  incon- 
sistent with  his  plan.  He  spent  a  great  deal  of  money,  with  which  his 
father,  finding  that  it  went  in  good  company,  at  first  supplied  him  freely. 
In  time,  however,  his  expenses  amounted  to  so  much,  that  Mr.  Lofty,  who 
kept  good  company  too,  found  it  difficult  to  answer  his  demands.  A  con- 
siderable sum  that  he  lost  at  play  with  one  of  his  noble  friends  increased 
the  difficulty.  If  it  were  not  paid,  the  disgrace  of  not  having  discharged 
a  debt  of  honour  would  lose  him  all  the  favour  he  had  acquired ;  yet  the 
money  could  not  be  raised  without  greatly  embarrassing  his  father's  affairs. 

In  the  midst  of  this  perplexity,  Mr.  Lofty  died,  leaving  behind  him  a 
large  family,  and  very  little  property.  Frederick  came  up  to  town,  and 
soon  dissipated  in  good  company  the  scanty  portion  that  came  to  his  share. 
Having  neither  industry,  knowledge,  nor  reputation,  he  was  then  obliged 
to  become  an  humble  dependant  on  the  great,  flattering  all  their  follies,  and 


306  TWENTY-FIFTH    EVENING. 

ministering  to  their  vices,  treated  by  them  with  mortifying  neglect,  and 
equally  despised  and  detested  by  the  rest  of  the  world. 

Henry,  in  the  meantime,  entered  with  spirit  into  the  business  of  his 
new  profession,  and  employed  his  leisure  in  cultivating  an  acquaintance 
with  a  few  select  friends.  These  were  partly  young  men  in  a  situation 
similar  to  his  own,  partly  persons  already  settled  in  life,  but  all  distin- 
guished by  propriety  of  conduct  and  improved  understandings.  From  all 
of  them  he  learned  something  valuable,  but  he  was  more  particularly 
indebted  to  two  of  them,  who  were  in  a  station  of  life  inferior  to  that  ol 
the  rest.  One  was  a  watchmaker,  an  excellent  mechanic  and  tolerable 
mathematician,  and  well  acquainted  with  the  construction  and  use  of  all 
the  instruments  employed  in  experimental  philosophy.  The  other  was  a 
young  druggist,  who  had  a  good  knowledge  of  chymistry,  and  frequently 
employed  himself  in  chymical  operations  and  experiments.  Both  of  them 
were  men  of  very  decent  manners,  and  took  a  pleasure  in  communicating 
their  knowledge  to  such  as  showed  a  taste  for  similar  studies.  Henry 
frequently  visited  them,  and  derived  much  useful  information  from  their 
instructions,  for  which  he  ever  expressed  great  thankfulness.  These 
various  occupations  and  good  examples  effectually  preserved  him  from  the 
errors  of  youth,  and  he  passed  his  time  with  credit  and  satisfaction.  He 
had  the  same  misfortune  with  Frederick,  just  as  he  was  ready  to  come  out 
into  the  world,  of  losing  his  father,  upon  whom  the  support  of  the  family 
chiefly  depended  ;  but  in  the  character  he  had  established,  and  the  knowl- 
edge he  had  acquired,  he  found  an  effectual  resource.  One  of  his  young 
friends  proposed  to  him  a  partnership  in  a  manufactory  he  had  just  set  up 
at  considerable  expense,  requiring  for  his  share  only  the  exertion  of  his 
talents  and  industry.  Henry  accepted  the  offer,  and  made  such  good  use 
of  the  skill  in  mechanics  and  chymistry  he  had  acquired,  that  he  introduced 
many  improvements  into  the  manufactory,  and  rendered  it  a  very  profitable 
concern.  He  lived  prosperous  and  independent,  and  retained  in  manhood 
all  the  friendships  of  his  youth. 


THE  WANDERER'S  RETURN. 

It  was  a  delightful  evening  about  the  end  of  August.  The  sun,  setting 
in  a  pure  sky,  illuminated  the  tops  of  the  western  hills,  and  tipped  the 
opposite  trees  with  a  yellow  lustre. 

A  traveller,  with  sunburnt  cheeks  and  dusty  feet,  strong  and  active, 


THE    WANDERERS    RETURN.  307 

having  a  knapsack  at  his  back,  had  gained  the  summit  of  a  steep  ascent, 
and  stood  gazing  on  the  plain  below. 

This  was  a  wide  tract  of  champaign  country,  checkered  with  villages, 
whose  towers  and  spires  peeped  above  the  trees  in  which  they  were 
embosomed.  The  space  between  them  was  chiefly  arable  land,  from 
which  the  last  products  of  the  harvest  were  busily  carrying  away. 

A  rivulet  wound  through  the  plain,  its  course  marked  with  gray  willows. 
On  its  banks  were  verdant  meadows,  covered  with  lowing  herds,  moving 
slowly  to  the  milkmaids,  who  came  tripping  along  with  pails  on  theii 
heads.  A  thick  wood  clothed  the  side  of  a  gentle  eminence  rising  from 
the  water,  crowned  with  the  ruins  of  an  ancient  castle. 

Edward  (that  was  the  traveller's  name)  dropped  on  one  knee,  and 
clasping  his  hands,  exclaimed,  "  Welcome,  welcome,  my  dear  native  land ; 
Many  a  sweet  spot  have  I  seen  since  I  left  thee,  but  none  so  sweet  as 
thou !  Never  has  thy  dear  image  been  out  of  my  memory ;  and  now  with 
what  transport  do  I  retrace  all  thy  charms  !  O,  receive  me  again,  never 
more  to  quit  thee !"  So  saying,  he  threw  himself  on  the  turf ;  and  having 
kissed  it,  rose  and  proceeded  on  his  journey. 

As  he  descended  into  the  plain,  he  overtook  a  little  group  of  children, 
merrily  walking  along  the  path,  and  stopping  now  and  then  to  gather 
berries  in  the  hedge. 

"Where  are  you  going,  my  dears?"  said  Edward. 

"  We  are  going  home,"  they  all  replied. 

"  And  where  is  that  ?" 

"Why,  to  Summerton,  that  town  there  among  the  trees,  just  before  us. 
Do  n't  you  see  it  ?" 

"  I  see  it  well,"  answered  Edward,  the  tear  standing  in  his  eye. 

"And  what  is  your  name — and  yours — and  yours?" 

The  little  innocents  told  their  names.  Edward's  heart  leaped  at  the 
well-known  sounds. 

"  And  what  is  your  name, my  dear?"  said  he  to  a  pretty  girl,  somewhat 
older  than  the  rest,  who  hung  back  shyly,  and  held  the  hand  of  a  ruddy, 
white-headed  boy,  just  breeched. 

"  It  is  Rose  Walsingham,  and  this  is  my  younger  brother,  Roger." 

"  Walsingham !"  Edward  clasped  the  girl  round  the  neck,  and 
surprised  her  with  two  or  three  very  close  kisses.  He  then  lifted  up 
little  Roger,  and  almost  devoured  him.  Roger  seemed  as  if  he  wanted 
to  be  set  down  again,  but  Edward  told  him  he  would  carry  him  home. 


308  TWENTY-FIFTH    EVENING. 

"And  can  you  show  me  the  house  you  live  at,  Rose?"  said  Edward. 

"Yes — it  is  just  there,  beside  the  pond,  with  the  great  barn  before  it, 
and  the  orchard  behind." 

"  And  will  you  take  me  home  with  you,  Rose  V' 

"If  you  please,"  answered  Rose,  hesitatingly. 

They  walked  on ;  Edward  said  but  little,  for  his  heart  was  full,  but  he 
frequently  kissed  little  Roger. 

Coming  at  length  to  a  stile  from  which  a  path  led  across  a  little  close, 
"  This  is  the  way  to  our  house,"  said  Rose. 

The  other  children  parted.  Edward  set  down  Roger,  and  got  over 
the  stile.  He  still,  however,  kept  hold  of  the  boy's  hand.  He  trembled, 
and  looked  wildly  around  him. 

When  they  approached  the  house,  and  old  mastiff  came  running  to 
meet  the  children.  He  looked  up  at  Edward  rather  sourly,  and  gave  a 
little  growl ;  when  all  at  once  his  countenance  changed ;  he  leaped  upon 
him,  licked  his  hand,  wagged  his  tail,  murmured  in  a  soft  voice,  and 
seemed  quite  overcome  with  joy.  Edward  stooped  down,  patted  his  head, 
and  cried,  *  Poor  Captain,  what !  are  you  alive,  yet  ?"  Rose  was  surprised 
that  the  stranger  and  their  dog  should  know  one  another. 

They  all  entered  the  house  together.  A  good-looking  middle-aged 
woman  was  busied  in  preparing  articles  of  cookery,  assisted  by  her 
grown-up  daughter.  She  spoke  to  the  children  as  they  came  in, 
and  casting  a  look  of  some  surprise  on  Edward,  asked  him  what  his 
business  was. 

Edward  was  some  time  silent ;  at  length,  with  a  faltering  voice,  he 
cried,  "  Have  you  forgot  me,  mother  ?" 

"  Edward !  my  son  Edward !"  exclaimed  the  good  woman.  And  they 
were  instantly  locked  in  each  other's  arms. 

"  My  brother  Edward  !"  said  Molly ;  and  took  her  turn  for  an  embrace, 
as  soon  as  her  mother  gave  her  room. 

"  Are  you  my  brother?"  said  Rose. 

"  That  I  am,"  replied  Edward,  with  another  kiss.  Little  Roger  looked 
hard  at  him,  but  said  nothing. 

News  of  Edward's  arrival  soon  flew  across  the  yard,  and  in  came  from 
the  barn  his  father,  his  next  brother,  Thomas,  and  the  third,  William. 
The  father  fell  on  his  neck,  and  sobbed  out  his  welcome  and  blessing. 
Edward  had  not  hands  enough  for  them  all  to  shake. 

An  aged,  white-headed  labourer  came  in,  and  held  out  his  shrivelled 


THE    WANDERER'S    RETURN.  309 

hand.  Edward  gave  it  a  hearty  squeeze.  "  God  bless  you,"  said  old 
Isaac ;  "  this  is  the  best  day  I  have  seen  this  many  a  year." 

"And  where  have  you  been  this  long  while?"  cried  the  father.  "Eight 
years  and  more,"  added  the  mother. 

His  elder  brother  took  off  his  knapsack;  and  Molly  drew  him  a  chair. 
Edward  seated  himself,  and  they  all  gathered  round  him ;  the  old  dog 
got  within  the  circle  and  lay  at  his  feet. 

"  O,  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you  all  again !"  were  Edward's  first  words. 
"  How  well  you  look,  mother !  but  father  grows  thinner.  As  for  the  rest,  I 
should  have  known  none  of  you,  unless  it  had  been  Thomas  and  old  Isaac." 

"  What  a  sunburnt  face  you  'have  got ! — but  you  look  brave  and 
hearty,"  cried  his  mother. 

"Ay,  mother,  I  have  been  enough  in  the  sun,  I  assure  you.  From 
seventeen  to  five-and-twenty  I  have  been  a  wanderer  upon  the  face  of  the 
earth,  and  I  have  seen  more  in  that  time  than  most  men  in  the  course  of 
their  lives. 

"  Our  young  landlord,  you  know,  took  such  a  liking  to  me  at  school, 
that  he  would  have  me  go  with  him  on  his  travels.  We  went  through 
most  of  the  countries  of  Europe,  and  at  last  to  Naples,  where  my  poor 
master  took  a  fever  and  died.  I  never  knew  what  grief  was  till  then ; 
and  I  believe  the  thoughts  of  leaving  me  in  a  strange  country  went  as 
much  to  his  heart  as  his  illness.  An  intimate  acquaintance  of  his,  a  rich 
young  West  Indian,  seeing  my  distress,  engaged  me  to  go  with  him  in  a 
voyage  he  was  about  to  make  to  Jamaica.  We  were  too  short  a  time  in 
England  before  we  sailed,  for  me  to  come  and  see  you  first,  but  I  wrote 
you  a  letter  from  the  Downs." 

"We  never  received  it,"  said  his  father. 

"  That  was  a  pity,"  returned  Edward;  "for  you  must  have  concluded 
I  was  either  dead  or  had  forgotten  you.  Well — we  arrived  safe  in  the 
West  Indies,  and  there  I  stay°d  till  I  had  buried  that  master,  too;  for 
young  men  die  fast  in  that  country.  I  was  very  well  treated,  but  I  could 
never  like  the  place ;  and  yet  Jamaica  is  a  very  fine  island,  and  has  many 
good  people  in  it.  But  for  me,  used  to  see  freemen  work  cheerfully  along 
with  their  masters — to  behold  nothing  but  droves  of  black  slaves  in  the 
fields,  toiling  in  the  burning  sun,  under  the  constant  dread  of  the  lash  ot 
hard-hearted  task-masters — it  was  what  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  bear; 
and  though  I  might  have  been  made  an  overseer  of  a  plantation,  I  chose 
rather  to  live  in  a  town,  and  follow  some  domestic  occupation.    I  could 


310  TWENTY-FIFTH    EVENING. 

soon  have  got  rich  there;  but  I  fell  into  a  bad  state  of  health,  and  people 
were  dying  all  round  me  of  the  yellow  fever;  so  I  collected  my  little 
property,  and  though  a  war  had  broken  out,  I  ventured  to  embark  with  it 
for  England. 

"  The  ship  was  taken,  and  carried  into  the  Havana,  and  I  lost  my  all 
and  my  liberty  besides.  However,  I  had  the  good  fortune  to  ingratiate 
myself  with  a  Spanish  merchant  whom  I  had  known  at  Jamaica,  and  he 
took  me  with  him  to  the  continent  of  South  America.  I  visited  great 
part  of  this  country,  once  possessed  by  flourishing  and  independent  nations, 
but  now  groaning  under  the  severe  yoke  of  their  haughty  conquerers.  I 
saw  those  famous  gold  and  silver  mines,  where  the  poor  natives  worked 
naked,  for  ever  shut  out  from  the  light  of  day,  in  order  that  the  wealth  of 
their  unhappy  land  may  go  to  spread  luxury  and  corruption  throughout  the 
remotest  regions  of  Europe. 

"  I  accompanied  my  master  across  the  great  southern  ocean,  a  voyage 
of  some  months,  without  the  sight  of  anything  but  water  and  sky.  We 
came  to  the  rich  city  of  Manilla,  the  capital  of  the  Spanish  settlements 
in  those  parts.  There  I  had  my  liberty  restored,  along  with  a  handsome 
reward  for  my  services.  I  got  thence  to  China;  and  from  China  to  the 
English  settlements  in  the  East  Indies,  where  the  sight  of  my  countrymen, 
and  the  sounds  of  my  native  tongue,  made  me  fancy  myself  almost  at  home 
again,  though  still  separated  by  half  the  globe. 

"  Here  I  saw  a  delightful  country,  swarming  with  industrious  inhabi- 
tants, some  cultivating  the  land,  others  employed  in  manufactures,  but  of 
so  gentle  and  effeminate  a  disposition,  that  they  have  always  fallen  under 
the  yoke  of  their  invaders.  Here  how  was  I  forced  to  blush  for  my 
countrymen,  whose  avarice  and  rapacity  so  often  have  laid  waste  this 
fair  land,  and  brought  on  it  all  the  horrors  of  famine  and  desolation  !  I 
have  seen  human  creatures  quarrelling  like  dogs  for  bare  bones  thrown 
upon  a  dunghill.  I  have  seen  fathers  selling  their  families  for  a  little  rice, 
and  mothers  entreating  strangers  to  take  their  children  for  slaves,  that 
they  might  not  die  of  hunger.  In  the  midst  of  such  scenes  I  saw  pomp 
and  luxury  of  which  our  country  affords  no  examples. 

"  Having  remained  here  a  considerable  time,  I  gladly  at  length  set  my 
face  homeward,  and  joined  a  company  who  undertook  the  long  and 
perilous  journey  to  Europe  over  land.  We  crossed  vast  tracts  both  desert 
and  cultivated  ;  sandy  plains  parched  with  heat  and  drought,  and  infested 
with  bands  of  ferocious  plunderers.     I  have  seen  a  well  of  muddy  water 


THE    WANDERER'S    RETURN.  3U 

moro  valued  than  ten  camel-loads  of  treasure ;  and  a  few  half-naked 
horsemen  strike  more  terror  than  a  king  with  all  his  guards.  At  length, 
after  numberless  hardships  and  dangers,  we  arrived  at  civilized  Europe, 
and  forgot  all  we  had  suffered.  As  I  came  nearer  my  native  land,  I  grew 
more  and  more  impatient  to  reach  it ;  and  when  I  had  set  foot  on  it,  1 
was  still  more  restless  till  I  could  see  again  my  beloved  home. 

"  Here  I  am  at  last — happy  in  bringing  back  a  sound  constitution  and 
a  clear  conscience.  I  have  also  brought  enough  of  the  relics  of  my 
honest  gains  to  furnish  a  little  farm  in  the  neighbourhood,  where  I  mean 
to  sit  down  and  spend  my  days  in  the  midst  of  those  whom  I  love  better 
than  all  the  world  besides." 

When  Edward  had  finished,  kisses  and  kind  shakes  of  the  hand  were 
again  repeated,  and  his  mother  brought  out  a  large  slice  of  harvest-cake, 
with  a  bottle  of  her  nicest  currant- wine,  to  refresh  him  after  his  day's 
march.  "  You  are  come,"  said  his  father,  "at  a  lucky  time,  for  this  is 
our  harvest-supper.  We  shall  have  some  of  our  neighbours  to  make 
merry  with  us,  who  will  be  almost  as  glad  to  see  you  as  we  are — for  you 
were  always  a  favourite  among  them." 

It  was  not  long  before  the  visiters  arrived.  The  young  folks  ran  out 
to  meet  them,  crying,  "Our  Edward's  come  back — our  Edward's  come 
home !  Here  he  is — this  is  he  ;"  and  so  without  ceremony  they  intro- 
duced them. 

"Welcome!  —  welcome!  —  God  bless  you!"  sounded  on  all  sides. 
Edward  knew  all  the  elderly  ones  at  first  sight,  but  the  young  people 
puzzled  him  for  awhile.  At  length  he  recollected  this  to  have  been  his 
schoolfellow,  and  that  his  companion  in  driving  plough;  and  he  was  not 
long  in  finding  out  his  favourite  and  playfellow  Sally,  of  the  next  farm- 
house, whom  he  left  a  romping  girl  of  fifteen,  and  now  saw  a  blooming 
full-formed  young  woman  of  three-and-twenty.  He  contrived  in  the 
evening  to  get  next  her :  and  though  she  was  somewhat  reserved  at  first, 
they  had  pretty  well  renewed  their  intimacy  before  the  company  broke  up. 

"  Health  to  Edward,  and  a  happy  settlement  among  us !"  was  the 
parting  toast.  When  all  were  retired,  the  Returned  Wanderer  went  to 
rest  in  the  very  room  in  which  he  was  born,  having  first  paid  fervent 
thanks  to  Heaven  for  preserving  him  to  enjoy  a  blessing  the  dearest  to 
his  heart. 


The  Landlord's  Visit,  p.  314 

EVENING  XXVI. 


DIFFERENCE  AND  AGREEMENT     OR,  SUNDAY  MORNING. 

It  was  Sunday  morning.  All  the  bells  were  ringing  for  church,  and 
the  streets  were  filled  with  people  moving  in  all  directions. 

Here,  numbers  of  well-dressed  persons,  and  a  long  train  of  charity 
children,  were  thronging  in  at  the  wide  doors  of  a  large  handsome  church. 
There,  a  smaller  number,  almost  equally  gay  in  dress,  were  entering  an 
elegant  meetinghouse.  Up  one  alley,  a  Roman  Catholic  congregation 
was  turning  into  their  retired  chapel,  every  one  crossing  himself  with  a 
finger  dipped  in  holy  water  as  he  went  in.     The  opposite  side  of  the  street 

312 


SUNDAY    MORNING.  313 

was  covered  with  a  train  of  Quakers,  distinguished  by  their  plain  and  neat 
attire  and  sedate  aspect,  who  walked  without  ceremony  into  a  room  as 
plain  as  themselves,  and  took  their  seats,  the  men  on  one  side,  and  the 
women  on  the  other,  in  silence.  A  spacious  building  was  filled  with  an 
overflowing  crowd  of  Methodists,  most  of  them  meanly  habited,  but  decent 
and  serious  in  demeanour;  while  a  small  society  of  Baptists  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood quietly  occupied  their  humble  place  of  assembly. 

Presently,  the  different  services  began.  The  church  resounded  with 
the  solemn  organ,  and  with  the  indistinct  murmurs  of  a  large  body  of 
people  following  the  minister  in  responsive  prayers.  From  the  meeting 
were  heard  the  low  psalm,  and  the  single  voice  of  the  leader  of  their 
devotions.  The  Roman  Catholic  chapel  was  enlivened  by  strains  of 
music,  the  tinkling  of  a  small  bell,  and  a  perpetual  change  of  service  and 
ceremonial.  A  profound  silence  and  unvarying  look  and  posture  announced 
the  self-recollection  and  mental  devotion  of  the  Quakers. 

Mr.  Ambrose  led  his  son  Edwin  round  all  these  different  assemblies  as 
a  spectator.  Edwin  viewed  everything  with  great  attention,  and  was  often 
impatient  to  inquire  of  his  father  the  meaning  of  what  he  saw ;  but  Mr. 
Ambrose  would  not  suffer  him  to  disturb  any  of  the  congregation  even  by 
a  whisper.  When  they  had  gone  through  the  whole,  Edwin  foucd  a 
greater  number  of  questions  to  put  to  his  father,  who  explained  everything 
put  to  him  in  the  best  manner  he  could.     At  length  says  Edwin : — 

"  But  why  cannot  all  these  people  agree  to  go  to  the  same  place,  and 
worship  God  the  same  way  ?" 

"  And  why  should  they  agree  ?"  replied  his  father.  "  Do  n't  you  see 
that  people  differ  in  a  hundred  other  things  ?  Do  they  all  dress  alike, 
and  eat  and  drink  alike,  and  keep  the  same  hours,  and  use  the  same 
diversions?" 

"  Ay— but  those  are  things  in  which  they  have  a  right  to  do  as  thev 
please.'" 

"  And  they  have  a  right,  too,  to  worship  God  as  they  please.  It  is  their 
own  business,  and  concerns  none  but  themselves." 

"  But  has  not  God  ordered  particular  ways  of  worshipping  him  ?" 

"  He  has  directed  the  mind  and  spirit  with  which  he  is  to  be  worshipped, 
but  not  the  particular  form  or  manner.  That  is  left  for  every  one  to 
choose,  according  as  suits  his  temper  and  opinions.  All  these  people  like 
their  own  way  best,  and  why  should  they  leave  it  for  the  choice  of  another  1 
Religion  is  one  of  the  things  in  which  mankind  were  made  to  differ." 

14 


314  TWENTY-SIXTH    EVENING. 

The  several  congregations  now  began  to  be  dismissed,  and  the  street 
was  again  overspread  with  persons  of  all  the  different  sects,  going  promis- 
cuously to  their  respective  homes.  It  chanced  that  a  poor  man  fell  down 
in  the  street  in  a  fit  of  apoplexy,  and  lay  for  dead.  His  wife  and  children 
stood  round  him  crying  and  lamenting  in  the  bitterest  distress.  The 
beholders  immediately  flocked  round,  and  with  looks  and  expressions  of 
the  warmest  compassion,  gave  their  help.  A  Churchman  raised  the  man 
from  the  ground  by  lifting  him  under  the  arms,  while  a  Dissenter  held  his 
head,  and  wiped  his  face  with  his  handkerchief.  A  Roman  Catholic  lady 
took  out  her  smelling-bottle,  and  assiduously  applied  it  to  his  nose.  A 
Methodist  ran  for  a  doctor.  A  Quaker  supported  and  comforted  the 
woman,  and  a  Baptist  took  care  of  the  children. 

Edwin  and  his  father  were  among  the  spectators.  "Here,"  said  Mr. 
Ambrose,  "  is  a  thing  in  which  mankind  were  made  to  agree? 

THE  LANDLORD'S  VISIT.— A  Drama. 
Scene — .4  room  in  a  farmhouse.     Betty,  the  farmer's  wife  ;   Fanny, 

a  young   woman  grown  up ;  children  of  various  ages  differently 

employed. 

Enter  Landlord. 

Landlord.  Good  morning  to  you,  Betty. 

Betty.  Ah! — is  it  your  honour?  How  do  you  do,  sir?  how  are  madam 
and  all  the  good  family  ? 

Land.  Very  well,  thank  you;  and  how  are  you,  and  all  yours? 

Bet.  Thank  your  honour — all  pretty  well.  Will  you  please  to  sit 
down  ?  Ours  is  but  a  little  crowded  place,  but  there  is  a  clean  corner. 
Set  out  the  chair  for  his  honour,  Mary. 

Land.  I  think  everything  is  very  clean.  What,  John's  in  the  field,  I 
suppose  ? 

Bet.  Yes,  sir,  with  his  two  eldest  sons,  sowing  and  harrowing. 

Land.  Well,  and  here  are  two,  three,  four,  six ;  all  the  rest  of  your 
stock,  I  suppose. — All  as  busy  as  bees ! 

Bet.  Ay,  your  honour !  These  are  not  times  to  be  idle  in.  John  and 
I  have  always  worked  hard,  and  we  bring  up  our  children  to  work  too. 
There's  none  of  them,  except  the  youngest,  but  can  do  something. 

Land.  You  do  very  rightly.  With  industry  and  sobriety  there  is  no 
fear  of  their  getting  a  living,  come  what  may.  I  wish  many  gentlemen's 
children  had  as  good  a  chance. 


THE    LANDLORD  S    VISIT.  315 

Bet.  Lord  !  sir,  if  they  have  fortunes  ready  got  for  them,  what  need 
they  care  ? 

Land.  But  fortunes  are  easier  to  spend  than  to  get ;  and  when  they 
are  at  the  bottom  of  the  purse,  what  must  tliey  do  to  fill  it  again  ? 

Bet.  Nay,  that's  true,  sir;  and  we  have  reason  enough  to  be  thankful, 
that  we  are  able  and  willing  to  work,  and  have  a  good  landlord  to  live 
under. 

Land.  Good  tenants  deserve  good  landlords ;  and  I  have  been  long 
acquainted  with  your  value.  Come,  little  folks,  I  have  brought  some- 
thing for  you.  [Takes  out  cakes. 

Bet.  Why  don't  you  thank  his  honour? 

Land.  I  did  not  think  you  had  a  daughter  so  old  as  that  young  woman. 

Bet.  No  more  I  have,  sir.  She  is  not  my  own  daughter,  though  she  is 
as  good  as  one  to  me. 

Land.  Some  relation,  then,  I  suppose  ? 

Bet.  No,  sir,  none  at  all. 

Land.  Who  is  she,  then  ? 

Bet.  {whispering).  When  she  is  gone  out,  I  will  tell  your  honour. — 
{aloud.)  Go,  Fanny,  and  take  some  milk  to  the  young  calf  in  the  stable. 

[Exit  Fanny. 

Land.  A  pretty  modest-looking  young  woman,  on  my  word ! 

Bet.  Ay,  sir — and  as  good  as  she  is  pretty.  You  must  know,  sir,  that 
this  young  woman  is  a  stranger  from  a  great  way  off.  She  came  here 
quite  by  accident,  and  has  lived  with  us  above  a  twelvemonth.  I  '11  tell 
your  honour  all  about  it  if  you  choose. 

Land.  Pray  do — I  am  curious  to  hear  it.  But  first  favour  me  with  a 
draught  of  your  whey. 

Bet.  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  for  not  offering  it.  Run,  Mary,  and  fetch 
his  honour  some  fresh  whey  in  a  clean  basin.  [Mary  goes. 

Land.  Now,  pray,  begin  your  story. 

Bet.  Well,  sir — As  our  John  was  coming  from  work  one  evening,  he 
saw  at  some  distance  on  the  road  a  carrier's  wagon  overturned.  He  ran 
up  to  help,  and  found  a  poor  old  gentlewoman  lying  on  the  back  much 
hurt,  and  this  girl  sitting  beside  her,  crying.  My  good  man,  after  he  had 
helped  in  setting  the  wagon  to  rights,  went  to  them,  and  with  a  good  deal 
of  difficulty  got  the  gentlewoman  into  the  wagon  again,  and  walked  by  the 
side  of  it  to  our  house.  He  called  me  out  and  we  got  something  com- 
fortable for  her ;  but  she  was  so  ill  that  she  could  not  bear  to  be  carried 


316  TWENTY-SIXTH    EVENING. 

farther.  So  after  consulting  a  while,  we  took  her  into  the  house,  and  put 
her  to  bed.  Her  head  was  sadly  hurt,  and  she  seemed  to  grow  worse 
instead  of  better.  We  got  a  doctor  to  her,  and  did  our  best  to  nurse  her, 
but  all  would  not  do,  and  we  soon  found  she  was  likely  to  die.  Poor 
Fanny,  her  grand-daughter,  never  left  her  day  or  night ;  and  it  would 
have  gone  to  your  honour's  heart,  to  have  heard  the  pitiful  moan  she  made 
over  her.  She  was  the  only  friend  she  had  in  the  world,  she  said  ;  and 
what  would  become  of  her  if  she  were  to  lose  her?  Fanny's  father  and 
mother  were  both  dead,  and  she  was  going  with  her  grandmother  into  the 
north,  where  the  old  gentlewoman  came  from,  to  live  cheap,  and  to  try  to 
find  out  some  relations.  Well — to  make  my  story  short,  in  a  few  days  the 
poor  woman  died.  There  was  a  little  more  money  about  her  than  would 
serve  to  pay  her  doctor  and  bury  her.  Fanny  was  in  sad  trouble,  indeed. 
I  thought  she  would  never  have  left  her  grandmother's  grave.  She  cried 
and  wrung  her  hands  most  bitterly.     But  I  tire  your  honour. 

Land.  O  no !  I  am  much  interested  in  your  story. 

Bet.  We  comforted  her  as  well  as  we  could  ;  but  all  her  cry  was, 
"  What  will  become  of  me  ?  Where  must  I  go  ?  Who  will  take  care  of 
me  ?"  So  after  a  while,  said  I  to  John, "  Poor  creature  !  my  heart  grieves 
for  her.  Perhaps  she  would  like  to  stay  with  us — though  she  seems  to 
have  been  brought  up  in  a  way  of  living  different  from  ours,  too ;  but  what 
can  she  do,  left  to  herself  in  the  wide  world !"  So  my  husband  agreed 
that  I  should  ask  her.  When  I  mentioned  it  to  her,  poor  thing  !  how  her 
countenance  altered !  "  O,"  said  she,  "  I  wish  for  nothing  so  much  as  to  stay 
and  live  with  y  ou !  I  am  afraid  I  can  do  but  little  to  serve  you,  but  indeed 
I  will  learn  to  do  my  best."  Said  I :  "Do  no  more  than  you  like  ;  you  are 
welcome  to  stay  and  partake  with  us  as  long  as  you  please."  Well,  sir  ! 
she  stayed  with  us ;  and  set  about  learning  to  do  all  kind  of  our  work  with 
such  good-will,  and  so  handily,  that  she  soon  became  my  best  helper. 
And  she  is  so  sweet-tempered,  and  so  fond  of  us  and  the  children,  that  I 
love  her  as  well  as  if  she  was  my  own  child.  She  has  been  well  brought 
up,  I  am  sure.  She  can  read,  and  write,  and  work  with  her  needle,  a 
great  deal  better  than  we  can,  and  when  work  is  over,  she  teaches  the 
children.  Then  she  is  extraordinarily  well-behaved,  so  as  to  be  admired 
by  all  that  see  her. — So  your  honour  has  now  the  story  of  our  Fanny. 

Land.  I  thank  you  heartily  for  it,  my  good  Betty  !  It  does  much  credit 
both  to  you  and  Fanny.     But  pray,  what  is  her  surname  ? 

Bet.  It  is — let  me  see — I  think  it  is  Welford. 


THE    LANDLORD'S    VISIT.  317 

Land.  Welford !  that  is  a  name  I  am  acquainted  with.  I  should  be 
glad  to  talk  with  her  a  little. 

Bet.  I  will  call  her  in  then.  [Enter  Fanny. 

Land.  Come  hither,  young  woman  ;  I  have  heard  your  story,  and  been 
much  interested  by  it.     You  are  an  orphan,  I  find. 

Fanny.  Yes,  sir ;  a  poor  orphan. 

Land.  Your  name  is  Welford  ? 

Fan.  It  is,  sir. 

Land.  Where  did  your  parents  live  ? 

Fan.  In  London,  sir ;  but  they  died  when  I  was  very  young,  and  I 
went  to  my  grandmother's  in  Surrey. 

Land.  Was  she  your  father's  mother?  You  will  excuse  my  questions. 
I  do  not  ask  from  idle  curiosity. 

Fan.  She  was,  sir ;  and  had  been  long  a  widow. 

Land.  Do  you  know  wnat  tier  maiden  name  was  ? 

Fan.  It  was  Borrowdale,  sir. 

Land.  Borrowdale! — And  pray,  whither  were  you  going  when  the 
unfortunate  accident  happened  ? 

Fan.  To  Kendal  in  Westmoreland,  sir,  near  which  my  grandmother 
was  born. 

Land.  Ah  !  'tis  the  very  same — every  circumstance  corresponds !  My 
dear  Fanny  {taking  her  hand),  you  have  found  a  relation  when  you  little 
thought  of  it.  I  am  your  kinsman.  My  mother  was  a  Borrowdale,  of 
Westmoreland,  and  half-sister  to  your  grandmother.  I  have  heard  of  all 
your  parentage  ;  and  I  remember  the  death  of  your  poor  father,  who  was 
a  very  honest  ingenious  artist :  and  of  your  mother  soon  after,  of  a  broken 
heart.  I  could  never  discover  what  family  they  left,  nor  what  was  become 
of  my  kinswoman.  But  I  rejoice  I  have  found  you  out  in  this  extraordinary 
manner.  You  must  come  and  live  with  me.  My  wife  and  daughters  will 
be  very  glad  to  receive  one  whose  conduct  has  done  her  so  much  credit. 

Fan.  I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  sir,  for  your  kindness ;  but  I  am  too 
mean  a  person  to  live  as  a  relation  in  a  family  like  yours. 

Land.  O  no !  you  will  not  find  us  of  that  sort  who  despise  worthy  people 
for  being  low  in  the  world  ;  and  your  language  and  actions  show  that  you 
have  been  well  brought  up. 

Fan.  My  poor  grandmother,  sir,  was  so  kind  as  to  give  me  all  the 
education  in  her  power ;  and  if  I  have  not  somewhat  benefited  by  her 
example  and  instructions,  it  must  have  been  my  own  fault. 


318  TWENTY-SIXTH    EVENING. 

Land.  You  speak  very  well,  and  I  feel  more  attached  to  you,  the  more 
I  hear  you. — Well,  you  must  prepare  to  come  home  with  me.  I  will  take 
care  to  make  proper  acknowledgments  to  the  good  people  here  who  have 
been  so  kind  to  you. 

Bet.  My  dear  Fanny,  I  am  heartily  glad  of  your  good  fortune,  but  we 
shall  all  be  sorry  to  part  with  you. 

Fan.  I  am  sure,  my  dear  friend  and  mistress,  I  shall  be  sorry  too.    You 
received  me  when  I  had  no  other  friend  in  the  world,  and  you  treated  me 
like  your  own  child.     I  can  never  forget  what  I  owe  you. 
Enter  John,  and  his  eldest  son  Thomas. 

John.  Is  your  honour  here  ? 

Land.  Yes,  John  ;  and  I  have  found  something  worth  coming  for. 

John.  What  is  that,  sir  ? 

Land.  A  relation,  John.  This  young  woman  whom  you  have  so  kindly 
entertained,  is  my  kinswoman. 

John.  What — our  Fanny  ? 

Thomas.  Fanny  ! 

Land.  Yes,  indeed.  And,  after  thanking  you  for  your  kindness  to  her 
and  her  poor  grandmother,  I  mean  to  take  her  home  for  a  companion  to 
my  wife  and  daughters. 

John.  This  is  wonderful  news,  indeed  !  Well,  Fanny,  I  am  very  glad 
you  have  got  such  a  home  to  go  to — you  are  worthy  of  it — but  we  shall 
miss  you  much  here. 

Bet.  So  I  have  been  telling  her. 

Thorn,  (aside  to  Fanny).  What,  will  you  leave  us,  Fanny  ?  Must 
we  part  ? 

Fan.  (aside  to  him).     What  can  I  do,  Thomas  ? 

Land.  There  seems  some  unwillingness  to  part,  I  see,  on  more  sides 
than  one. 

Bet.  Indeed,  sir,  I  believe  there  is.  We  have  lived  very  happily 
together. 

Thorn,  (aside  to  Fanny).  I  see  we  must  part  with  you,  but  I  hope — 
Surely  you  won't  quite  forget  us  ? 

Fan.  (to  him).    You  distress  me,  Thomas.     Forget  you  !  O  no  ! 

Land.  Come,  I  see  there  is  something  between  the  young  folks  that 
ought  to  be  spoken  about  plainly.     Do  you  explain  it,  Betty. 

Bet.  Why,  your  honour  knows,  we  could  not  tell  that  Fanny  was  your 
relation.     So,  as  my  son  Thomas  and  she  seemed  to  take  a  liking  to  one 


THE    LANDLORD'S    VISIT.  319 

another,  and  she  was  such  a  clever  girl,  we  did  not  object  to  their  thinking 
about  making  a  match  of  it,  as  soon  as  he  should  be  settled  in  a  farm. 

John.  But  that  must  be  over  now. 

Thorn.  Why  so,  father? 

John.  Why  ;  you  can't  think  of  his  honour's  kinswoman. 

Land.  Come,  Fanny,  do  you  decide  this  affair. 

Fan.  Sir,  Thomas  offered  me  his  service  when  he  thought  me  a  poor 
friendless  girl,  and  I  might  think  myself  favoured  by  his  notice.  He 
gained  my  good  will,  which  no  change  of  circumstances  can  make  me 
withdraw.  It  is  my  determination  to  join  my  lot  with  his,  be  it  what  it 
may. 

Thorn.  My  dearest  Fanny !  [  Taking  her  hand. 

Land.  You  act  nobly,  my  dear  girl,  and  make  me  proud  of  my  relation. 
You  shall  have  my  free  consent,  and  something  handsome  into  the 
bargain. 

Bet.  Heaven  bless  your  honour!  I  know  it  would  have  been  a  heart- 
breaking to  my  poor  boy  to  have  parted  with  her.     Dear  Fanny  ! 

[Kisses  her. 

Land.  I  have  a  farm  just  now  vacant.  Thomas  shall  take  it,  and 
Fanny's  portion  shall  stock  it  for  him. 

Thorn.  I  humbly  thank  your  honour. 

John.  I  thank  you  too,  sir,  for  us  all. 

Fan.  Sir,  since  you  have  been  so  indulgent  in  this  matter,  give  me 
leave  to  request  you  to  be  satisfied  with  my  paying  my  duty  to  the  ladies, 
without  going  to  live  in  a  way  so  different  from  what  I  have  been  used 
to,  and  must  live  in  hereafter.  I  think  I  can  be  nowhere  better  than  witu 
my  friends  and  future  parents  here. 

Land.  Your  request,  Fanny,  has  so  much  propriety  and  good  sense  in 
it,  that  I  cannot  refuse  it.  However,  you  must  suffer  us  to  improve  our 
acquaintance.     I  assure  you  it  will  give  me  particular  pleasure. 

Fan.  Sir,  you  will  always  command  my  most  grateful  obedience. 

Land.  Well — let  Thomas  bring  you  to  my  house  this  afternoon,  and  I 
will  introduce  you  to  your  relations,  and  we  will  talk  over  matters. 
Farewell,  my  dear!     Nay,  I  must  have  a  kiss. 

Fan.  I  will  wait  on  you,  sir.  [Exit  Landlord. 

Bet.  My  dear  Fanny — daughter  I  may  now  call  you — you  cannot  think 
how  much  I  feel  obliged  to  you. 

Thorn.  But  who  is  so  much  obliged  as  I  am  ? 


320  TWENTY-SIXTH    EVENING. 

Fan.  Do  you  not  all  deserve  everything  from  me '? 

John.  Well,  who  could  have  thought  when  I  went  to  help  up  the 
wagon,  that  it  would  have  brought  so  much  good  luck  to  us  ? 

Bet.  A  good  deed  is  never  lost  they  say. 

Fan.  It  shall  be  the  business  of  my  life  to  prove  that  this  has  not  been 
lost. 


ON  EMBLEMS. 

"Pray,  papa,"  said  Cecilia,  "what  is  an  emblem?  I  have  met  with  the 
word  in  my  lesson  to-day,  and  I  do  not  quite  understand  it." 

"An  emblem,  my  dear,"  replied  he,  "  is  a  visible  image  of  an  invisible 
thing." 

Cecilia.  A  visible  image  of— I  can  hardly  comprehend — 

Pa.  Well,  I  will  explain  it  more  at  length.  There  are  certain  notions 
that  we  form  in  our  minds  without  the  help  of  our  eyes  or  any  of  our 
senses.  Thus,  Virtue,  Vice,  Honour,  Disgrace,  Time,  Death,  and  the 
like,  are  not  sensible  objects,  but  ideas  of  the  understanding. 

Cec.  Yes — We  cannot  feel  them  or  see  them,  but  we  can  think  about 
them. 

Pa.  True.  Now  it  sometimes  happens  that  we  wish  to  represent  one 
of  these  in  a  visible  form ;  that  is,  to  offer  something  to  the  sight  that 
shall  raise  a  similar  notion  in  the  minds  of  the  beholders.  In  order  to  do 
this,  we  must  take  some  action  or  circumstance  belonging  to  it,  capable 
of  being  expressed  by  painting  or  sculpture,  and  this  is  called  a  type  or 
emblem, 

Cec.  But  how  can  this  be  done  ? 

Pa.  I  will  tell  you  by  an  example.  You  know  the  sessions-house, 
where  trials  are  held.  It  would  be  easy  to  write  over  the  door  in  order 
to  distinguish  it,  "  This  is  the  sessions-house ;"  but  it  is  a  more  ingenious 
and  elegant  way  of  pointing  it  out,  to  place  upon  the  building  a  figure 
representing  the  purpose  for  which  it  was  erected,  namely,  to  distribute 
justice.  For  this  end  the  notion  of  justice  is  to  be  personified,  that  is, 
changed  from  an  idea  of  the  understanding  into  one  of  the  sight.  A 
human  figure  is  therefore  made,  distinguished  by  tokens  which  bear  a 
relation  to  the  character  of  that  virtue.  Justice  carefully  weighs  both 
sides  of  a  cause;  she  is  therefore  represented  as  holding  a  pair  oj 
scales.     It  is  her  office  to  punish  crimes;  she  therefore  bears  a  sword. 


THE    LANDLORD  S    VISIT.  321 

This  is  then  an  emblematical  figure,   and  the  sword  and  scales  are 
emblems. 

Cec.  I  understand  this  very  well.     But  why  is  she  blindfolded? 

Pa.  To  denote  her  impartiality — that  she  decides  only  from  the  merits 
of  the  case,  and  not  from  a  view  of  the  parties. 

Cec.  How  can  she  weigh  anything,  though,  when  her  eyes  are  blinded  ? 

Pa.  Well  objected.  These  are  two  inconsistent  emblems ;  each  proper 
in  itself,  but  when  used  together,  making  a  contradictory  action.  An 
artist  of  judgment  will  therefore  drop  one  of  them;  and  accordingly  the 
best  modern  figures  of  Justice  have  the  balance  and  sword,  without  the 
bandage  over  the  eyes. 

Cec.  Is  there  not  the  same  fault  in  making  Cupid  blindfolded,  and  yet 
putting  a  bow  and  arrow  into  his  hands? 

Pa.  There  is.  It  is  a  gross  absurdity,  and  not  countenanced  by  the 
ancient  descriptions  of  Cupid,  who  is  represented  as  the  surest  of  all 
archers. 

Cec.  I  have  a  figure  of  Death  in  my  fable-book.  I  suppose  that  is 
emblematical  ? 

Pa.  Certainly,  or  you  could  not  know  that  it  meant  Death.  How  is  it 
represented  ? 

Cec.  He  is  nothing  but  bones,  and  he  holds  a  scythe  in  one  hand,  and 
an  hour-glass  in  the  other. 

Pa.  Well — how  do  you  interpret  these  emblems  ? 

Cec.  I  suppose  he  is  all  bones,  because  nothing  but  bones  are  left  after 
a  dead  body  has  lain  long  in  the  grave. 

Pa.  True.  This,  however,  is  not  so  propeny  an  emblem,  as  the  real 
and  visible  effect  of  death.     But  the  scythe  ? 

Cec.  Is  not  that  because  death  mows  down  everything? 

Pa.  It  is.  No  instrument  could  so  properly  represent  the  wide- wasting 
sway  of  death,  which  sweeps  down  the  race  of  animals  like  flowers  falling 
under  the  hands  of  the  mower.     It  is  a  simile  used  in  the  Scriptures. 

Cec.  The  hour-glass,  I  suppose,  is  to  show  people  their  time  is  come. 

Pa.  Right.  In  the  hour-glass  that  Death  holds,  all  the  sand  is  run 
out  from  the  upper  to  the  lower  part.  Have  you  never  observed  upon  a 
monument  an  old  figure,  with  wings,  and  a  scythe,  and  with  his  head 
bald  all  but  a  single  lock  before  ? 

Cec.  O  yes  5— and  I  have  been  told  it  is  THme, 

Pa.  Well — and  what  do  you  make  of  it?    Why  is  he  old  ? 

14* 


m  TWENTY-SIXTH    EVENING. 

Cec.  O !  because  he  has  lasted  a  long  while. 

Pa.  And  why  has  he  wings  ? 

Cec.  Because  Time  is  swift,  and  flies  away. 

Pa.  What  does  his  scythe  mean  ? 

Cec.  I  suppose  it  is  because  he  destroys  and  cuts  down  everything, 
like  Death. 

Pa.  True.  I  think,  however,  a  weapon  rather  slower  in  operation,  as 
a  pick-axe,  would  have  been  more  suitable  to  the  gradual  action  of  time. 
But  what  is  his  single  lock  of  hair  for  ? 

Cec.  I  have  been  thinking,  and  cannot  make  it  out. 

Pa.  I  thought  that  would  puzzle  you.  It  relates  to  time  as  giving 
opportunity  for  doing  anything.  It  is  to  be  seized  as  it  presents  itself,  or 
it  will  escape,  and  cannot  be  recovered.  Thus  the  proverb  says,  "  Take 
Time  by  the  forelock."     Well — now  you  understand  what  emblems  are. 

Cec.  Yes,  I  think  I  do.  I  suppose  the  painted  sugar-loaves  over  the 
grocer's  shop,  and  the  mortar  over  the  apothecary's,  are  emblems,  too  ? 

Pa.  Not  so  properly.  They  are  only  the  pictures  of  things  which  are 
themselves  the  objects  of  sight,  as  the  real  sugar-loaf  in  the  shop  of  the 
grocer,  and  the  real  mortar  in  that  of  the  apothecary.  However,  an 
implement  belonging  to  a  particular  rank  or  profession  is  commonly  used 
as  an  emblem  to  point  out  the  man  exercising  that  rank  or  profession. 
Thus,  a  crown  is  considered  as  an  emblem  of  a  king;  a  sword,  or  spear, 
of  a  soldier ;  an  anchor,  of  a  sailor ;  and  the  like. 

Cec.  I  remember  Captain  Heartwell,  when  he  came  to  see  us,  had  the 
figure  of  an  anchor  on  all  his  buttons. 

Pa.  He  had.  That  was  the  emblem  or  badge  of  his  belonging  to  the  navy. 

Cec.  But  you  told  me  that  an  emblem  was  a  visible  sign  of  an  invisible 
thing ;  yet  a  sea-captain  is  not  an  invisible  thing. 

Pa.  He  is  not  invisible  as  a  man,  but  his  profession  is  invisible. 

Cec.  I  do  not  well  understand  that. 

Pa.  Profession  is  a  quality,  belonging  equally  to  a  number  of  individuals, 
however  different  they  may  be  in  external  form  and  appearance.  It  may 
be  added  or  taken  away  without  any  visible  change.  Thus,  if  Captain 
Heartwell  were  to  give  up  his  commission,  he  would  appear  to  you  the 
same  man  as  before.  It  is  plain,  therefore,  that  what  in  that  case  he  had 
lost,  namely,  his  profession,  was  a  thing  invisible.  It  is  one  of  those  ideas 
of  the  understanding  which  I  before  mentioned  to  you  as  different  from  a 
sensible  idea. 


ON    EMBLEMS.  323 

Cec.  I  comprehend  it  now. 

Pa.  I  have  got  here  a  few  emblematical  pictures.  Suppose  you  try 
whether  you  can  find  out  their  meaning 

Cec.  O  yes — I  shall  like  that  very  well. 

Pa.  Here  is  a  man  standing  on  the  summit  of  a  steep  cliff,  and  going 
to  ascend  a  ladder  which  he  has  planted  against  a  cloud. 

Cec.  Let  me  see  ! — that  must  be  Ambition,  I  think. 

Pa.  How  do  you  explain  it  ? 

Cec.  He  is  got  very  high  already,  but  he  wants  to  be  still  higher ;  so 
he  ventures  up  the  ladder,  though  it  is  only  supported  by  a  cloud,  and 
hangs  over  a  precipice. 

Pa.  Very  right.  Here  is  now  another  man,  hood-winked,  who  is 
crossing  a  raging  torrent  upon  stepping-stones. 

Cec.  Then  he  will  certainly  fall  in.  I  suppose  he  is  one  that  runs  into 
danger  without  considering  whither  he  is  going? 

Pa.  Yes ;  and  you  may  call  him  Fool-hardiness.  Do  you  see  this  hand 
coming  out  of  a  black  cloud,  and  putting  an  extinguisher  upon  a  lamp  ? 

Cec.  I  do.  If  that  lamp  be  the  lamp  of  life,  the  hand  that  extinguishes 
it  must  be  Death. 

Pa.  Very  just.  Here  is  an  old,  half-ruined  building,  supported  by 
props ;  and  the  figure  of  Time  is  sawing  through  one  of  the  props. 

Cec.   That  must  be  Old  Age,  surely. 

Pa.  It  is.     The  next  is  a  man  leaning  upon  a  breaking  crutch. 

Cec.  I  do  n't  well  know  what  to  make  of  that. 

Pa.  It  is  intended  for  Instability;  however,  it  might  also  stand  for 
False  Confidence.  Here  is  a  man  poring  over  a  sundial  with  a  candle  in 
his  hand. 

Cec.  I  am  at  a  loss  for  that,  too. 

Pa.  Consider — a  sundial  is  only  made  to  tell  the  hour  by  the  light  of 
the  sun. 

Cec.  Then  this  man  must  know  nothing  about  it. 

Pa.  True ;  and  his  name  is  therefore  Ignorance.  Here  is  a  walking- 
stick,  the  lower  part  of  which  is  set  in  the  water,  and  it  appears  crooked. 
What  does  that  denote  ? 

Cec.  Is  the  stick  really  crooked  ? 

Pa.  No ;  but  it  is  the  property  of  water  to  give  that  appearance. 

Cec.  Then  it  must  signify  Deception. 

Pa.  It  does.     I  dare  say  you  will  at   once  know  this  fellow  who 


324  TWENTY-SIXTH    EVENING. 

is  running  as  fast  as  his  legs  will  carry  him,  and  looking  back  at  his 
shadow. 

Cec.  He  must  be  Fear  or  Terror,  I  fancy. 

Pa.  Yes  ;  you  may  call  him  which  you  please.  But  who  is  this  sower, 
that  scatters  seeds  in  the  ground? 

Cec.  Let  me  consider.  I  think  there  is  a  parable  in  the  Bible  about, 
seed  sown,  and  it  therefore  signifies  something  like  Instruction. 

Pa.  True ;  but  it  may  also  represent  Hope,  for  no  one  sows  without 
hoping  to  reap  the  fruit.  What  do  you  think  of  this  candle  held  before  a 
mirror,  in  which  its  figure  is  exactly  reflected  ? 

Cec.  I  do  not  know  what  it  means. 

Pa.  It  represents  Truth  ;  the  essence  of  which  consists  in  the  fidelity 
with  which  objects  are  received  and  reflected  back  by  our  minds.  The 
object  is  here  a  luminous  one,  to  show  the  clearness  and  brightness  of 
Truth.  Here  is  next  an  upright  column,  the  perfect  straightness  of  which 
is  shown  by  a  plumb-line  hanging  from  its  summit,  and  exactly  parallel 
to  the  side  of  the  column. 

Cec.  I  suppose  that  must  represent  Uprightness. 

Pa.  Yes — or  in  other  words,  Rectitude.  The  strength  and  stability  of  the 
pillar  alone  denote  the  security  produced  by  this  virtue.  You  see  here  a 
woman  disentangling  and  reeling  off  a  very  perplexed  skein  of  thread. 

Cec.  She  must  have  a  great  deal  of  patience. 

Pa.  True.  She  is  Patience  herself.  The  brooding  hen,  sitting  beside 
her,  is  another  emblem  of  the  same  quality  that  aids  the  interpretation. 
Who  do  you  think  this  pleasing  female  is,  that  looks  with  such  kindness 
upon  the  drooping  plant  she  is  watering? 

Cec.  That  must  be  Charity,  I  believe. 

Pa.  It  is ;  or  you  may  call  her  Benignity,  which  is  nearly  the  same 
thing.  Here  is  a  lady  sitting  demurely,  with  one  finger  on  her  lip,  while 
she  holds  a  bridle  in  her  other  hand. 

Cec.  The  finger  on  the  lip,  I  suppose,  denotes  Silence.  The  bridle 
must  mean  confinement.  I  should  almost  fancy  her  to  be  a  school- 
mistress. 

Pa.  Ha  !  ha  !  I  hope,  indeed,  many  schoolmistresses  are  endued  with 
her  spirit,  for  she  is  Prudence  or  Discretion.  Well — we  are  now  got  to 
the  end  of  our  pictures,  and  upon  the  whole  you  have  interpreted  them 
very  prettily. 

Cec.  But  I  have  one  question  to  ask  you,  papa.     In  these  pictures  and 


X 


ON    EMBLEMS.  325 

others  that  I  have  seen  of  the  same  sort,  almost  all  the  good  qualities  are 
represented  in  the  form  of  women.     What  is  the  reason  of  that? 

Pa.  It  is  certainly  a  compliment,  my  dear,  either  to  your  sex's  person 
or  mind.  The  inventor  either  chose  the  figure  of  a  female  to  clothe  each 
agreeable  quality  in,  because  he  thought  that  the  most  agreeable  form,  and 
therefore  best  suited  it ;  or  he  meant  to  imply  that  the  female  character  is 
really  the  most  virtuous  and  amiable.  I  rather  believe  that  the  first  was 
his  intention,  but  I  shall  not  object  to  your  taking  it  in  the  light  of  the 
second. 

Cec.  But  is  it  true — is  it  true  ? 

Pa.  Why,  I  can  give  you  very  good  authority  for  the  preference  of  the 
female  sex,  in  a  moral  view.  One  Ledyard,  a  great  traveller,  who  had 
walked  through  almost  all  the  countries  of  Europe,  and  at  last  died  in  an 
expedition  to  explore  the  internal  parts  of  Africa,  gave  a  most  decisive 
and  pleasing  testimony  in  favour  of  the  superior  character  of  women, 
whether  savage  or  civilized.  I  was  so  much  pleased  with  it,  that  I  put 
great  part  of  it  into  verse ;  and  if  it  will  not  make  you  vain,  I  will  give 
you  a  copy  of  my  lines. 

Cec.  O,  pray,  do  ! 

Pa.  Here  they  are.     Read  them. 

LEDYARD'S  PRAISE  OF  WOMEN. 

Through  many  a  land  and  clime  a  ranger 
With  toilsome  steps,  I  've  held  my  way, 

A  lonely,  unprotected  stranger, 
To  all  the  stranger's  ills  a  prey. 

While  steering  thus  my  course  precarious, 

My  fortune  still  had  been  to  find 
Men's  hearts  and  dispositions  various, 

But  gentle  Woman  ever  kind. 

Alive  to  every  tender  feeling, 

To  deeds  of  mercy  ever  prone, 
The  wounds  of  pain  and  sorrow  healing 

With  soft  compassion's  sweetest  tone. 

No  proud  delay,  no  dark  suspicion, 
Stints  the  free  bounty  of  their  heart ; 


326  TWENTY-SIXTH    EVENING. 

They  turn  not  from  the  sad  petition, 
But  cheerful  aid  at  once  impart. 

Formed  in  henevolence  of  nature, 
Obliging,  modest,  gay,  and  mild, 

Woman's  the  same  endearing  creature 
In  courtly  town  and  savage  wild. 

When  parched  with  thirst,  with  hunger  wasted, 
Her  friendly  hand  refreshment  gave, 

How  sweet  the  coarsest  food  has  tasted  ! 
What  cordial  in  the  simple  wave  ! 

Her  courteous  looks,  her  words  caressing, 
Shed  comfort  on  the  fainting  soul : 

Woman's  the  stranger's  general  blessing, 
From  sultry  India  to  the  Pole. 


EVENING  XXVII. 


GENEROUS  REVENGE. 

At  the  period  when  the  republic  of  Genoa  was  divided  between  the 
factions  of  the  nobles  and  the  people,  Uberto,  a  man  of  low  origin,  but 
of  an  elevated  mind  and  superior  talents,  and  enriched  by  commerce, 
having  raised  himself  to  be  the  head  of  a  popular  party,  maintained  for  a 
considerable  time  a  democratic  form  of  government. 

The  nobles,  at  length,  uniting  all  their  efforts,  succeeded  in  subverting 
this  state  of  things,  and  regained  their  former  supremacy.  They  used 
their  victory  with  considerable  rigour ;  and  in  particular  having  imprisoned 

327 


328  TWENTY-SEVENTH    EVENING. 

Uberto,  proceeded  against  him  as  a  traitor,  and  thought  they  displayed 
sufficient  lenity  in  passing  a  sentence  upon  him  of  perpetual  banishment 
and  the  confiscation  of  all  his  property.  Adorno,  who  was  then  possessed 
of  the  first  magistracy,  a  man  haughty  in  temper,  and  proud  of  ancient 
nobility,  though  otherwise  not  void  of  generous  sentiments,  in  pronouncing 
this  sentence  on  Uberto,  aggravated  its  severity  by  the  insolent  terms  in 
which  he  conveyed  it.  "You,"  said  he, — "  you,  the  son  of  a  base  mechanic, 
who  have  dared  to  trample  upon  the  nobles  of  Genoa — you,  by  their 
clemency,  are  only  doomed  to  shrink  again  into  the  nothingness  whence 
you  sprung." 

Uberto  received  his  condemnation  with  respectful  submission  to  the 
court ;  yet  stung  by  the  manner  in  which  it  was  expressed,  he  could  not 
forbear  saying  to  Adorno,  that  "  perhaps  he  might  hereafter  find  cause  to 
repent  the  language  he  had  used  to  a  man  capable  of  sentiments  as  elevated 
as  his  own."  He  then  made  his  obeisance  and  retired ;  and  after  taking 
leave  of  his  friends,  embarked  in  a  vessel  bound  for  Naples,  and  quitted 
his  native  country  without  a  tear. 

He  collected  some  debts  due  to  him  in  the  Neapolitan  dominions,  and 
with  the  wreck  of  his  fortune  went  to  settle  on  one  of  the  islands  in  ihe 
Archipelago  belonging  to  the  state  of  Venice.  Here  his  industry  and 
capacity  in  mercantile  pursuits  raised  him,  in  a  course  of  years,  to  greater 
wealth  than  he  had  possessed  in  his  most  prosperous  days  at  Genoa ;  and 
his  reputation  for  honour  and  generosity  equalled  his  fortune. 

Among  other  places  which  he  frequently  visited  as  a  merchant,  was  the 
city  of  Tunis,  at  that  time  in  friendship  with  the  Venetians,  though  hostile 
to  most  of  the  other  Italian  states,  and  especially  to  Genoa.  As  Uberto 
was  on  a  visit  to  one  of  the  first  men  of  that  place  at  his  country-house, 
he  saw  a  young  Christian  slave  at  work  in  irons,  whose  appearance  excited 
his  attention.  The  youth  seemed  oppressed  with  labour,  to  which  his 
delicate  frame  had  not  been  accustomed,  and  while  he  leaned  at  intervals 
upon  the  instrument  with  which  he  was  working,  a  sigh  burst  from  his 
full  heart,  and  a  tear  stole  down  his  cheek.  Uberto  eyed  him  with  tender 
compassion,  and  addressed  him  in  Italian.  The  youth  eagerly  caught  the 
sounds  of  his  native  tongue,  and  replying  to  his  inquiries,  informed  him 
he  was  a  Genoese.  "  And  what  is  your  name,  young  man  ?"  said  Uberto. 
"  You  need  not  be  afraid  of  confessing  to  me  your  birth  and  condition." 

"  Alas  !"  he  answered,  "  I  fear  my  captors  already  suspect  enough  to 
demand  a  large  ransom.     My  father  is  indeed  one  of  the  first  men  in 


GENEROUS    REVENGE.  329 

Genoa.  His  name  is  Adorno,  and  I  am  his  only  son." — "  Adorno !" 
Uberto  checked  himself  from  uttering  more  aloud,  but  to  himself  he  cried. 
"  Thank  Heaven  !  then  I  shall  be  nobly  revenged." 

He  took  leave  of  the  youth,  and  immediately  went  to  inquire  after  the 
corsair  captain  who  claimed  a  right  in  young  Adorno,  and  having  found 
him,  demanded  the  price  of  his  ransom.  He  learned  that  he  was  consid- 
ered as  a  captive  of  value,  and  that  less  than  two  thousand  crowns  would 
not  be  accepted.  Uberto  paid  the  sum ;  and  causing  his  servant  to  follow 
him  with  a  horse  and  a  complete  suit  of  handsome  apparel,  he  returned  to 
the  youth,  who  was  working  as  before,  and  told  him  he  was  free.  With 
his  own  hands  he  took  off  his  fetters,  and  helped  him  to  change  his  dress, 
and  mount  on  horseback.  The  youth  was  tempted  to  think  it  all  a  dream, 
and  the  flutter  of  emotion  almost  deprived  him  of  the  power  of  returning 
thanks  to  his  generous  benefactor.  He  was  soon,  however,  convinced  of 
the  reality  of  his  good  fortune,  by  sharing  the  lodging  and  table  of  Uberto. 

After  a  stay  of  some  days  at  Tunis  to  despatch  the  remainder  of  his 
business,  Uberto  departed  homeward  accompanied  by  young  Adorno,  who 
by  his  pleasing  manners  had  highly  ingratiated  himself  with  him.  Uberto 
kept  him  some  time  at  his  house,  treating  him  with  all  the  respect  and 
affection  he  could  have  shown  for  the  son  of  his  dearest  friend.  At  length, 
having  a  safe  opportunity  of  sending  him  to  Genoa,  he  gave  him  a  faith- 
ful servant  for  a  conductor,  fitted  him  out  with  every  convenience,  slipped 
a  purse  of  gold  into  one  hand,  and  a  letter  into  the  other,  and  thus 
addressed  him : — 

"  My  dear  youth,  I  could  with  much  pleasure  detain  you  longer  in  my 
humble  mansion,  but  I  feel  your  impatience  to  revisit  your  friends,  and  I 
am  sensible  that  it  would  be  cruelty  to  deprive  them  longer  than  neces- 
sary of  the  joy  they  will  receive  in  recovering  you.  Deign  to  accept  this 
provision  for  your  voyage,  and  deliver  this  letter  to  your  father.  He 
probably  may  recollect  something  of  me,  though  you  are  too  young  to  do 
so.  Farewell ;  I  shall  not  soon  forget  you,  and  I  hope  you  will  not  forget 
me."  Adorno  poured  out  the  effusions  of  a  grateful  and  affectionate  heart, 
and  they  parted  with  mutual  tears  and  embraces. 

The  young  man  had  a  prosperous  voyage  home ;  and  the  transport  with 
which  he  was  again  beheld  by  his  almost  heart-broken  parents  may  more 
easily  be  conceived  than  described.  After  learning  that  he  had  been  a 
captive  in  Tunis,  (for  it  was  supposed  that  the  ship  in  which  he  sailed 
had  foundered  at  sea,)  "And  to  whom,"  said  old  Adorno,  "  am  I  indebted 


330  TWENTY-SEVENTH    EVENING. 

for  the  inestimable  benefit  of  restoring  you  to  my  arms?" — "  This  letter," 
said  his  son,  "  will  inform  you."     He  opened  it,  and  read  as  follows  : — 

"  That  son  of  a  vile  mechanic,  who  told  you  that  one  day  you  might 
repent  the  scorn  with  which  you  treated  him,  has  the  satisfaction  of  seeing 
his  prediction  accomplished.  For  know,  proud  noble  !  that  the  deliverer 
of  your  only  son  from  slavery  is  "  The  banished  Uberto." 

Adorno  dropped  the  letter  and  covered  his  face  with  his  hand,  while 
his  son  was  displaying  in  the  warmest  language  of  gratitude  the  virtues 
of  Uberto,  and  the  truly  paternal  kindness  he  had  experienced  from  him. 
As  the  debt  could  not  be  cancelled,  Adorno  resolved  if  possible  to  repay 
it.  He  made  such  powerful  intercessions  with  the  other  nobles,  that  the 
sentence  pronounced  on  Uberto  was  reversed,  and  full  permission  given 
him  to  return  to  Genoa.  In  apprizing  him  of  this  event,  Adorno  expressed 
his  sense  of  the  obligations  he  lay  under  to  him,  acknowledged  the  genuine 
nobleness  of  his  character,  and  requested  his  friendship.  Uberto  returned 
to  his  country,  and  closed  his  days  in  peace,  with  the  universal  esteem 
of  his  fellow-citizens. 


THE  POWER  OF  HABIT. 

William  was  one  day  reading  in  a  book  of  travels  to  his  father,  when 
he  came  to  the  following  relation  : — 

"  The  Andes  in  South  America  are  the  highest  ridge  of  mountains  in 
the  known  world.  There  is  a  road  over  them,  on  which,  about  halfway 
between  the  summit  and  the  foot,  is  a  house  of  entertainment,  where  it  is 
common  for  travellers  in  their  ascent  and  descent  to  meet.  The  differ- 
ence of  their  feelings  upon  the  same  spot  is  very  remarkable.  Those  who 
are  descending  the  mountain  are  melting  with  heat,  so  that  they  can 
scarcely  bear  any  clothes  upon  them;  while  those  who  are  ascending 
shiver  with  cold,  and  wrap  themselves  up  in  the  warmest  garments  they 
have." 

"How  strange  this  is!"  cried  William;  "What  can  be  the  reason 
of  it  ?" 

"It  is,"  replied  his  father,  "  a  striking  instance  of  the  power  of  habit 
over  the  body.  The  cold  is  so  intense  on  the  top  of  these  mountains,  that 
it  is  as  much  as  travellers  can  do  to  keep  themselves  from  being  frozen  to 
death.     Their  bodies,  therefore,  become  so  habituated  to  the  sensation  of 


THE    POWER    OF    HABIT.  331 

cold,  that  every  diminution  of  it  as  they  descend  seems  to  them  a  degree 
of  actual  heat ;  and  when  they  are  got  halfway  down,  they  feel  as  if  they 
were  quite  in  a  sultry  climate.  On  the  other  hand  the  valleys  at  the  foot 
of  the  mountains  are  so  excessively  hot,  that  the  body  becomes  relaxed, 
and  sensible  to  the  slightest  degree  of  cold;  so  that  when  a  traveller 
ascends  from  them  toward  the  hills,  the  middle  regions  appear  quite 
inclement  from  their  coldness." 

"  And  does  the  same  thing,"  rejoined  William,  "  always  happen  in 
crossing  high  mountains  ?" 

"  It  does,"  returned  his  father,  "  in  a  degree  proportioned  to  their  height, 
and  the  time  taken  in  crossing  them.  Indeed,  a  short  time  is  sufficient  to 
produce  similar  effects.  Let  one  boy  have  been  playing  at  rolling  snow- 
balls, and  another  have  been  roasting  himself  before  a  great  fire,  and  let 
them  meet  in  the  porch  of  the  house ; — if  you  ask  them  how  they  feel,  I 
will  answer  for  it  you  will  find  them  as  different  in  their  accounts  as  the 
travellers  on  the  Andes.  But  this  is  only  one  example  of  the  operation 
of  a  universal  principle  belonging  to  human  nature :  for  the  power  of 
habit  is  the  same  thing  whatever  be  the  circumstance  which  calls  it  forth, 
whether  relating  to  the  mind  or  the  body. 

"  You  may  consider  the  story  you  have  been  reading  as  a  sort  of  simile 
or  parable.  The  central  station  on  the  mountain  may  be  compared  to 
middle  life.  With  what  different  feelings  is  this  regarded  by  those  who 
bask  in  the  sunshine  of  opulence,  and  those  who  shrink  under  the  cold 
blast  of  penury ! 

"Suppose  the  wealthy  duke,  our  neighbour, were  suddenly  obliged  to 
descend  to  our  level,  and  live  as  we  do — to  part  with  all  his  carriages, 
sell  his  coach-horses,  and  hunters,  quit  his- noble  seat  with  its  fine  park 
and  gardens,  dismiss  all  his  train  of  servants  except  two  or  three,  and 
take  a  house  like  ours ;  what  a  dreadful  fall  it  would  seem  to  him !  bow 
wretched  it  would  probably  make  him,  and  how  much  would  he  be  pitied 
by  the  world ! 

"On  the  other  hand,  suppose  the  labourer  who  lives  in  the  next  cottage 
were  unexpectedly  to  fall  heir  to  an  estate  of  a  few  hundreds  a  year,  and 
in  consequence  to  get  around  him  all  the  comforts  and  conveniences  that 
we  possess — a  commodious  house  to  inhabit,  good  clothes  to  wear,  plenty 
of  wholesome  food  and  firing,  servants  to  do  all  the  drudgery  of  the  family 
and  the  like ;—  how  all  his  acquaintance  would  congratulate  him,  and 
what  a  paradise  would  he  seem  to  himself  to  be  got  into  !     Yet  he,  and 


332  TWENTY-SEVENTH    EVENING. 

the  duke,  and  ourselves,  are  equally  men,  made  liable  by  nature  to  the 
same  desires  and  necessities,  and  perhaps  all  equally  strong  in  constitution, 
and  equally  capable  of  supporting  hardships.  Is  not  this  fully  as  wonderful 
a  difference  in  feeling  as  that  on  crossing  the  Andes  ?" 

"Indeed  it  is,"  said  William. 

"And  the  cause  of  it  must  be  exactly  the  same — the  influence  of  habit." 

"I  think  so." 

"  Of  what  importance  then  must  it  be  toward  a  happy  life,  to  regulate 
our  habits  so,  that  in  the  possible  changes  of  this  world  we  may  be  more 
likely  to  be  gainers  than  losers !" 

"  But  how  can  this  be  done  ?  Would  it  be  right  for  the  duke  to  live 
like  us,  or  us  like  the  labourer?" 

"  Certainly  not.  But  to  apply  the  case  to  persons  of  our  middle  con- 
dition, I  would  have  us  use  our  advantages  in  such  a  frugal  manner,  as  to 
make  them  as  little  as  possible  essential  to  our  happiness,  should  fortune 
sink  us  to  a  lower  station.  For  as  to  the  chance  of  rising  to  a  higher, 
there  is  no  need  to  prepare  our  habits  for  that — we  should  readily  enough 
accommodate  our  feelings  to  such  a  change.  To  be  pleased  and  satisfied 
with  simple  food,  to  accustom  ourselves  not  to  shrink  from  the  inclemencies 
of  the  seasons — to  avoid  indolence,  and  take  delight  in  some  useful 
employment  of  the  mind  or  body,  to  do  as  much  as  we  can  for  ourselves, 
and  not  expect  to  be  waited  upon  on  every  small  occasion — these  are  the 
habits  which  will  make  us  in  some  measure  independent  of  fortune,  and 
secure  us  a  moderate  degree  of  enjoyment  under  every  change  short  of 
absolute  want.    I  will  tell  you  a  story  to  this  purpose. 

"  A  London  merchant  had  two  sons,  James  and  Richard.  James,  from 
a  boy,  accustomed  himself  to  every  indulgence  in  his  power,  and  when 
he  grew  up,  was  quite  a  fine  gentleman.  He  dressed  expensively,  frequented 
public  diversions,  kept  his  hunter  at  a  livery  stable,  and  was  a  member  of 
several  convivial  clubs.  At  home,  it  was  almost  a  footman's  sole  business 
to  wait  on  him.  He  would  have  thought  it  greatly  beneath  him  to  buckle 
his  own  shoes ;  and  if  he  wanted  anything  at  the  other  end  of  the  room, 
he  would  ring  the  bell,  and  bring  the  servant  up  two  pair  of  stairs,  rather 
than  rise  from  his  chair  to  fetch  it.  He  did  a  little  business  in  the  counting- 
house  on  forenoons,  but  devoted  all  his  time  after  dinner  to  indolence  and 
amusement. 

"  Richard  was  a  different  character.  He  was  plain  in  his  appearance, 
and  domestic  in  his  way  of  life.     He  gave  as  little  trouble  as  possible,  and 


THE    COST    OF    WAR.  333 

would  have  been  ashamed  to  ask  assistance  in  doing  what  he  could  easily 
do  for  himself.  He  was  assiduous  in  business,  and  employed  his  leisure 
hours  chiefly  in  reading  and  acquiring  useful  knowledge. 

"Both  were  still  young  and  unsettled  when  their  father  died,  leaving 
behind  him  a  very  trifling  property.  As  the  young  men  had  not  capital 
sufficient  to  follow  the  same  line  of  mercantile  business  in  which  he  had 
been  engaged,  they  were  obliged  to  look  out  for  a  new  plan  of  maintenance  . 
and  a  great  reduction  of  expense  was  the  first  thing  requisite.  This  was 
a  severe  stroke  to  James,  who  found  himself  at  once  cut  off  from  all  the 
pleasures  and  indulgences  to  which  he  was  so  habituated,  that  he  thought 
life  of  no  value  without  them.  He  grew  melancholy  and  dejected, 
hazarded  all  his  little  property  in  lottery  tickets,  and  was  quite  beggared. 
Still,  unable  to  think  of  retrieving  himself  by  industry  and  frugality,  he 
accepted  a  commission  in  a  new-raised  regiment  ordered  for  the  West 
Indies,  where,  soon  after  his  arrival,  he  caught  a  fever  and  died. 

"Richard,  in  the  meantime,  whose  comforts  were  little  impaired  by  his 
change  of  situation,  preserved  his  cheerfulness,  and  found  no  difficulty  in 
accommodating  himself  to  his  fortune.  He  engaged  himself  as  a  clerk 
in  a  house  his  father  had  been  connected  with,  and  lived  as  frugally  as 
possible  upon  his  salary.  It  furnished  him  with  decent  board,  lodging, 
and  clothing,  which  was  all  he  required,  and  his  hours  of  leisure  were 
nearly  as  many  as  before.  A  book  or  a  sober  friend  always  sufficed  to 
procure  him  an  agreeable  evening.  He  gradually  rose  in  the  confidence 
of  his  employers,  who  increased  from  time  to  time  his  salary  and 
emoluments.  Every  increase  was  a  source  of  gratification  to  him,  because 
he  was  able  to  enjoy  pleasures  which,  however,  habit  had  not  made 
necessary  to  his  comfort.  In  process  of  time  he  was  enabled  to  settle  for 
himself,  and  passed  through  life  in  the  enjoyment  of  that  modest  com- 
petence which  best  suited  his  disposition." 

THE  COST  OF  A  WAR. 

"You  may  remember,  Oswald,"  said  Mr.  B.  to  his  son,  "that  I  gave 
you  some  time  ago  a  notion  of  the  price  of  a  victory  to  the  poor  souls 
engaged  in  it." 

"  I  shall  not  soon  forget  it,  I  assure  you,  sir,"  replied  Oswald. 

Father,  Very  well ;  I  mean  now  to  give  you  some  idea  of  the  cost  of 
a  tear  to  the  people  among  whom  it  is  carried  on.     This  may  serve 


334  TWENTY-SEVENTH    EVENING. 

to  abate  something  of  the  admiration  with  which  historians  are  to  apt  to 
inspire  us  for  great  warriors  and  conquerors.  You  have  heard,  I  doubt 
not,  of  Louis  the  Fourteenth,  king  of  France  ? 

Oswald.  Oh,  yes ! 

Fa.  He  was  entitled  by  his  subjects  Louis  le  Grand,  and  was  compared 
by  them  to  the  Cesars  and  Alexanders  of  antiquity ;  and  with  some 
justice  as  to  the  extent  of  his  power,  and  the  use  he  made  of  it.  He  was 
the  most  potent  prince  of  his  time ;  commanded  mighty  and  victorious 
armies ;  and  enlarged  the  limits  of  his  hereditary  dominions.  Louis  was 
not  naturally  a  hard-hearted  man  ;  but  having  been  taught  from  his  cradle 
that  everything  ought  to  give  way  to  the  interests  of  his  glory,  and  that 
this  glory  consisted  in  domineering  over  his  neighbours,  and  making 
conquests,  he  grew  to  be  insensible  to  all  the  miseries  brought  on  his  own 
and  other  people,  in  pursuit  of  this  noble  design,  as  he  thought  it. 
Moreover,  he  was  plunged  in  dissolute  pleasures,  and  the  delights  of  pomp 
and  splendour,  from  his  youth ;  and  he  was  ever  surrounded  by  a  tribe  of 
abject  flatterers,  who  made  him  believe  that  he  had  a  full  right,  in  all 
cases  to  do  as  he  pleased.  Conquest  abroad  and  pleasure  at  home,  were 
therefore  the  chief  business  of  his  life. 

One  evening,  his  minister,  Louvois,  came  to  him  and  said,  "  Sire,  it  is 
absolutely  necessary  to  make  a  desert  of  the  Palatinate." 

This  is  a  country  in  Germany,  on  the  banks  of  the  Rhine,  one  of  the 
most  populous  and  best-cultivated  districts  in  that  empire,  filled  with 
towns  and  villages,  and  industrious  inhabitants. 

"  I  should  be  sorry  to  do  it,"  replied  the  king,  "  for  you  know  how  much 
odium  we  acquired  throughout  Europe  when  a  part  of  it  was  laid  waste 
sometime  ago,  under  Marshal  Turenne." 

"It  cannot  be  helped,  sire,"  returned  Louvois.  "All  the  damage  he 
did  has  been  repaired,  and  the  country  is  as  flourishing  as  ever.  If  we 
leave  it  in  its  present  state  it  will  afford  quarters  to  your  majesty's 
enemies,  and  endanger  your  conquests.  It  must  be  entirely  ruined — the 
good  of  the  service  will  not  permit  it  to  be  otherwise." 

"  Well,  then,"  answered  Louis,  "  if  it  must  be  so,  you  are  to  give  orders 
accordingly."  So  saying,  he  left  the  cabinet,  and  went  to  assist  a  mag- 
nificent festival  given  in  honour  of  his  favourite  mistress  by  a  prince  of 
the  blood. 

The  pitiless  Louvois  lost  no  time  ;  but  despatched  a  courier  that  very 
night,  with  positive  orders  to  the  French  generals  in  the  Palatinate  to  carry 


THE    COST    OF    A    WAR.  335 

fire  and  desolation  through  the  whole  country — not  to  leave  a  house  or  a 
tree  standing — and  to  expel  all  the  inhabitants. 

It  was  the  midst  of  a  rigorous  winter. 

Os.  O  horrible  !  but  surely  the  generals  would  not  obey  such  orders  ? 

Fa.  What,  a  general  disobey  the  commands  of  his  sovereign ! — That 
would  be  contrary  to  every  maxim  of  the  trade.  Right  and  wrong  are  no 
considerations  to  a  military  man.  He  is  only  to  do  as  he  is  bid.  The 
French  generals  who  were  upon  the  spot,  and  must  see  with  their  own 
eyes  all  that  was  done,  probably  felt  somewhat  like  men  on  the  occasion  ; 
but  the  sacrifice  to  their  duty  as  soldiers  was  so  much  the  greater.  The 
commands  were  peremptory,  and  they  were  obeyed  to  a  tittle.  Towns 
and  villages  were  burnt  to  the  ground ;  vineyards  and  orchards  were  cut 
down  and  rooted  up  ;  sheep  and  cattle  were  killed  ;  all  the  fair  works  of 
ages  were  destroyed  in  a  moment  ;  and  the  smiling  face  of  culture  was 
turned  to  a  dreary  waste. 

The  poor  inhabitants  were  driven  from  their  warm  and  comfortable 
habitations  into  the  open  fields,  to  confront  all  the  inclemencies  of  the 
season.  Their  furniture  was  burnt  or  pillaged,  and  nothing  was  left  them 
but  the  clothes  on  their  backs,  and  the  few  necessaries  they  could  carry 
with  them.  The  roads  were  covered  with  trembling  fugitives,  going 
they  knew  not  whither,  shivering  with  cold  and  pinched  with  hunger. 
Here  an  old  man,  dropping  with  fatigue,  lay  down  to  die — there  a  woman 
with  a  new-born  infant  sunk  perishing  on  the  snow,  while  her  husband 
hung  over  them  in  all  the  horror  of  despair. 

Os.  O,  what  a  scene  !    Poor  creatures  !   What  became  of  them  at  last? 

Fa.  Such  of  them  as  did  not  perish  on  the  road  got  to  the  neighbouring 
towns,  where  they  were  received  with  all  the  hospitality  that  such 
calamitous  times  would  afford  ;  but  they  were  beggared  for  life.  Mean- 
time, their  country  for  many  a  league  round  displayed  no  other  sight  than 
that  of  black  smoking  ruins  in  the  midst  of  silence  and  desolation. 

Os.  I  hope,  however,  that  such  things  do  not  often  happen  in  war. 

Fa.  Not  often,  perhaps,  to  the  same  extent :  but  in  some  degree  they 
must  take  place  in  every  war.  A  village  which  would  afford  a  favourable 
post  to  the  enemy  is  always  burnt  without  hesitation.  A  country  which 
can  no  longer  be  maintained,  is  cleared  of  all  its  provision  and  forage 
before  it  is  abandoned,  lest  the  enemy  should  have  the  advantage 
of  them  ;  and  the  poor  inhabitants  are  left  to  subsist  as  they  can.  Crops 
of  corn  are  trampled  down  by  armies  in  their  march,  or  devoured  while 


336  TWENTY-SEVENTH    EVENING. 

green  as  fodder  for  their  horses.  Pillage,  robbery  and  murder,  are  always 
going  on  in  the  outskirts  of  the  best-disciplined  camp.  Then  consider 
what  must  happen  in  every  siege.  On  the  first  approach  of  the  enemy, 
all  the  buildings  in  the  suburbs  of  a  town  are  demolished,  and  all  the 
trees  in  gardens  and  public  walks  are  cut  down,  lest  they  should  afford 
shelter  to  the  besiegers.  As  the  siege  goes  on,  bombs,  hot  balls,  and 
cannon-shot,  are  continually  flying  about;  by  which  the  greatest  part  of  a 
town  is  ruined  or  laid  in  ashes,  and  many  of  the  innocent  people  killed 
or  maimed.  If  the  resistance  is  obstinate,  famine  and  pestilence  are 
sure  to  take  place ;  and  if  the  garrison  holds  out  to  the  last,  and  the  town 
is  taken  by  storm,  it  is  generally  given  up  to  be  pillaged  by  the  enraged 
and  licentious  soldiery. 

It  would  be  easy  to  bring  too  many  examples  of  cruelty  exercised  upon 
a  conquered  country,  even  in  very  late  times,  when  war  is  said  to  be 
carried  on  with  so  much  humanity ;  but,  indeed,  how  can  it  be  otherwise  ? 
The  art  of  war  is  essentially  that  of  destruction,  and  it  is  impossible  there 
should  be  a  mild  and  merciful  way  of  murdering  and  ruining  one's  fellow- 
creatures.  Soldiers,  as  men,  are  often  humane ;  but  war  must  ever  be 
cruel.  Though  Homer  has  filled  his  Iliad  with  the  exploits  of  fighting 
heroes,  yet  he  makes  Jupiter  address  Mars,  the  god  of  War,  in  terms  of 
the  utmost  abhorrence : — 

"  Of  all  the  gods  who  tread  the  spangled  skies, 

Thou  most  unjust,  most  odious  in  our  eyes ; 

In  human  discord  is  thy  dire  delight, 

The  waste  of  slaughter,  and  the  rage  of  fight : 

No  bound,  no  law,  thy  fiery  temper  quells."— Pope. 

Os.  Surely,  as  war  is  so  bad  a  thing,  there  might  be  some  way  of 
preventing  it. 

Fa.  Alas  !  I  fear  mankind  have  been  too  long  accustomed  to  it,  and  it 
is  too  agreeable  to  their  bad  passions,  easily  to  be  laid  aside,  whatevei 
miseries  it  may  bring  upon  them.  But,  in  the  meantime,  let  us  correct  our 
own  ideas  of  the  matter,  and  no  longer  lavish  admiration  upon  such  a  pest 
of  the  human  race  as  a  Conqueror,  how  brilliant  soever  his  qualities  may 
be ;  nor  ever  think  that  a  profession  which  binds  a  man  to  be  the  servile 
instrument  of  cruelty  and  injustice  is  an  honourable  calling. 


The  Gain  of  a  Loss,  p.  344, 

EVENING  XXVIII. 


GREAT  MEN. 

"I  will  show  you  a  great  man,"  said  Mr.  C.  one  day  to  his  son,  at 
the  time  the  duke  of  Bridge  water's  canal  was  making.  He  accordingly 
took  nim  to  a  place  where  several  workmen  were  employed  in  raising  a 
prodigious  mound,  on  the  top  of  which  the  canal  was  to  be  carried  across 
a  deep  valley.  In  the  midst  of  them  was  a  very  plain-dressed  man, 
awkward  in  his  gestures,  uncouth  in  his  appearance,  and  rather  heavy  in 
his  countenance — in  short,  a  mere  countryman  like  the  rest.  He  had  a 
I  Ian  in  his  hand  and  was  giving  directions  to  the  people  around  him, 

15  337 


338  TAVENTY-EIGHTH    EVENING. 

and  surveying  the  whole  labour  with  profound  attention.  "  This,  Arthur," 
said  Mr.  C.,  "  is  the  great  Mr.  BrindleyP 

"  What,"  cried  Arthur  in  surprise,  u  is  that  a  great  man  f" 

Mr.  C.  Yes,  a  very  great  man.     Why  are  you  surprised  ? 

Ar.  I  don't  know,  but  I  should  have  expected  a  great  man  to  have  looked 
very  differently. 

Mr.  C.  It  matters  little  how  a  man  looks,  if  he  can  perform  great  things. 
That  person,  without  any  advantages  of  education,  has  become,  by  the 
force  of  his  own  genius,  the  first  engineer  of  the  age.  He  is  doing  things 
that  were  never  done  or  even  thought  of  in  this  country  before.  He 
pierces  hills,  makes  bridges  over  valleys,  and  aqueducts  across  navigable 
rivers,  and,  in  short,  is  likely  to  change  the  whole  face  of  the  country,  and 
to  introduce  improvements  the  value  of  which  cannot  be  calculated.  When 
at  a  loss  how  to  bring  about  any  of  his  designs,  he  does  not  go  to  other 
people  for  assistance,  but  he  consults  the  wonderful  faculties  of  his  own 
mind,  and  finds  a  way  to  overcome  his  difficulties.  He  looks  like  a  rustic 
it  is  true,  but  he  has  a  soul  of  the  first  order,  such  as  is  not  granted  to  one 
out  of  millions  of  the  human  race. 

Ar.  But  are  all  men  of  extraordinary  abilities  properly  great  men? 

Mr.  C.  The  word  has  been  variously  used  ;  but  I  would  call  every  one 
a  great  man  who  does  great  things  by  means  of  his  own  powers.  Great 
abilities  are  often  employed  about  trifles,  or  indolently  wasted  v/ithout  any 
considerable  exertion  at  all.  To  make  a  great  man,  the  object  pursued 
should  be  large  and  important,  and  vigour  and  perseverance  should  be 
employed  in  the  pursuit. 

Ar.  All  the  great  men  I  remember  to  have  read  about  were  kings,  or 
generals,  or  prime  ministers,  or  in  some  high  station  or  other. 

Mr.  C.  It  is  natural  they  should  stand  foremost  in  the  list  of  great  men, 
because  the  sphere  in  which  they  act  is  an  extensive  one,  and  what  they 
do  has  a  powerful  influence  over  numbers  of  mankind.  Yet  those  that 
invent  useful  arts,  or  discover  important  truths  which  may  promote  the 
comfort  and  happiness  of  unborn  generations  in  the  most  distant  parts  of 
the  world,  act  a  still  more  important  part ;  and  their  claim  to  merit  is 
generally  more  undoubted  than  that  of  the  former,  because  what  they  do 
is  more  certainly  their  own. 

In  order  to  estimate  the  real  share  a  man  in  a  high  station  has  had  in 
the  great  events  which  have  been  attributed  to  him,  strip  him  in  your 
imagination  of  all  the  external  advantages  of  rank  and  power,  and  see 


GREAT    MEN.  339 

what  a  figure  he  would  have  made  without  them  ;  or  fancy  a  common  man 
put  in  his  place,  and  judge  whether  affairs  would  have  gone  on  in  the 
same  track.  Augustus  Cesar,  and  Louis  XIV.  of  France,  have  both  been 
called  great  princes  j  but  deprive  them  of  their  crown,  and  they  will  both 
dwindle  into  obscure  and  trivial  characters.  But  no  change  of  circum- 
stances could  reduce  Alfred  the  Great  to  the  level  of  a  common  man. 
The  two  former  could  sink  into  their  graves,  and  yield  their  power  to  a 
successor,  and  scarcely  be  missed ;  but  Alfred's  death  changed  the  fate  of 
his  kingdom.  Thus  with  Epaminondas  fell  all  the  glory  and  greatness  of 
the  Theban  state.  He  first  raised  it  to  consequence,  and  it  could  not 
survive  him. 

Ar.  Was  not  Czar  Peter  a  great  man  ? 

Mr.  C.  I  am  not  sure  he  deserves  that  title.  Being  a  despotic  prince, 
at  the  head  of  a  vast  empire,  he  could  put  into  execution  whatever  plans 
he  was  led  to  adopt,  and  these  plans  in  general  were  grand  and  beneficial 
to  his  country.  But  the  means  he  used  were  such  as  the  master  of  the 
lives  and  fortunes  of  millions  could  easily  employ,  and  there  was  more  of 
brutal  force  than  of  skill  and  judgment  in  the  manner  m  which  he  pursued 
his  designs.  Still  he  was  an  extraordinary  man  ;  and  the  resolution  of 
leaving  his  throne,  in  order  to  acquire  in  foreign  countries  the  knowledge 
necessary  to  rescue  his  own  from  barbarism,  was  a  feature  of  greatness. 
A  truly  great  prince,  however,  would  have  employed  himself  better  than 
in  learning  to  build  boats  at  Saardam. 

Ar.  What  was  Alexander  the  Great? 

Mr.  C.  A  great  conqueror,  but  not  a  great  man.  It  was  easy  for  him, 
with  the  well-disciplined  army  of  Greeks  which  he  received  from  his 
father  Philip,  to  overrun  the  unwarlike  kingdoms  of  Asia,  and  defeat  the 
Great  King,  as  the  king  of  Persia  was  called :  but  though  he  showed 
some  marks  of  an  elevated  mind,  he  seems  to  have  possessed  few  qualities 
which  could  have  raised  him  to  distinction  had  he  been  born  in  an  humble 
station.  Compare  his  fugitive  grandeur,  supported  by  able  ministers  and 
generals,  to  the  power  which  his  tutor  the  great  Aristotle,  merely  through 
the  force  of  his  own  genius,  exercised  over  men's  minds  throughout  the 
most  civilized  part  of  the  world  for  two  thousand  years  after  his  death. 
Compare  also  the  part  which  has  been  acted  in  the  world  by  the  Spanish 
monarchs,  the  masters  of  immense  possessions  in  Europe  and  America, 
to  that  by  Christopher  Columbus,  the  Genoese  navigator,  who  could  have 
it  inscribed  on  his  tombstones  that  he  gave  a  new  world  to  the  kingdom 


340  TWENTY- EIGHTH    EVENING. 

of  Castile  and  Aragon.  These  comparisons  will  teach  you  to  distinguish 
between  greatness  of  character  and  greatness  of  station,  which  are  too 
often  confounded.  He  who  governs  a  great  country  may  in  one  sense  be 
called  a  great  king ;  but  this  is  no  more  than  an  appellation  belonging  to 
rank,  like  that  of  the  Great  Mogul,  or  the  Grand  Seignor,  and  infers  no 
more  personal  grandeur  than  the  title  of  Mr.  Such-a-one.  the  Great  Grocer, 
or  Great  Brewer. 

Ar.  Must  not  great  men  be  good  men,  too  ? 

Mr.  C.  If  that  man  is  great  who  does  great  things,  it  will  not  follow 
that  goodness  must  necessarily  be  one  of  his  qualities,  since  that  chiefly 
refers  to  the  end  and  intentions  of  actions.  Julius  Cesar,  and  Cromwell, 
for  example,  were  men  capable  of  the  greatest  exploits ;  but  directing 
them,  not  to  the  public  good,  but  to  the  purposes  of  their  own  ambition, 
in  pursuit  of  which  they  violated  all  the  duties  of  morality,  they  have 
obtained  the  title  of  great  bad  men.  A  person,  however,  cannot  be  great 
at  all  without  possessing  many  virtues.  He  must  be  firm,  steady,  and 
diligent,  superior  to  difficulties  and  dangers,  and  equally  superior  to  the 
allurements  of  ease  and  pleasure.  For  want  of  these  moral  qualities, 
many  persons  of  exalted  minds  and  great  talents  have  failed  to  deserve 
the  title  of  great  men.  It  is  in  vain  that  the  French  poets  and  historians 
have  decorated  Henry  the  Fourth  with  the  name  of  Great ;  his  facility  of 
disposition  and  uncontrollable  love  of  pleasure  have  caused  him  to  forfeit 
his  claim  to  it  in  the  estimation  of  impartial  judges.  As  power  is  essential 
to  greatness,  a  man  cannot  be  great  without  power  over  himself,  which 
is  the  highest  kind  of  power. 

Ar.  After  all,  is  it  not  better  to  be  a  good  man  than  a  great  one  ? 

Mr.  C.  There  is  more  merit  in  being  a  good  man,  because  it  is  what 
we  make  ourselves,  whereas  the  talents  that  produce  greatness  are  the  gift 
of  nature ;  though  they  may  be  improved  by  our  own  efforts,  they  cannot 
be  acquired.  But  if  goodness  is  the  proper  object  of  our  love  and  esteem, 
greatness  deserves  our  high  admiration  and  respect.  This  Mr.  Brindley 
before  us  is  by  all  accounts  a  worthy  man,  but  it  is  not  for  this  reason  I 
have  brought  you  to  see  him.  I  wish  you  to  look  upon  him  as  one  of 
those  sublime  and  uncommon  objects  of  nature  which  fill  the  mind  with 
a  certain  awe  and  astonishment.  Next  to  being  great  oneself,  it  is 
desirable  to  have  a  true  relish  for  greatness. 


THE    FOUR    SISTERS.  341 


THE  FOUR  SISTERS. 


I  am  one  of  four  sisters ;  and  having  some  reason  to  think  myself  not 
well  used  either  by  them  or  by  the  world,  I  beg  leave  to  lay  before  you  a 
sketch  of  our  history  and  characters.  You  will  not  wonder  there  should 
be  frequent  bickerings  among  us,  when  I  tell  you  that  in  our  infancy  we 
were  continually  fighting ;  and  so  great  was  the  noise,  and  din,  and 
confusion,  in  our  continual  struggles  to  get  uppermost,  that  it  was  impos- 
sible for  anybody  to  live  among  us  in  such  a  scene  of  tumult  and 
disorder.  These  brawls,  however,  by  a  powerful  interposition,  were  put 
an  end  to  ;  our  proper  place  was  assigned  to  each  of  us,  and  we  had  strict 
orders  not  to  encroach  on  the  limits  of  each  other's  property,  but  to  join 
our  common  offices  for  the  good  of  the  whole  family. 

My  first  sister  (I  call  her  the  first,  because  we  have  generally  allowed 
her  the  precedence  in  rank)  is,  I  must  acknowledge,  of  a  very  active, 
sprightly  disposition;  quick  and  lively,  and  has  more  brilliancy  than  any 
of  us ;  but  she  is  hot :  everything  serves  for  fuel  to  her  fury  when  it  is 
once  raised  to  a  certain  degree,  and  she  is  so  mischievous  whenever  she 
gets  the  upper  hand,  that  notwithstanding  her  aspiring  disposition,  if  I  may 
freely  speak  my  mind,  she  is  calculated  to  make  a  good  servant,  but  a 
very  bad  mistress. 

I  am  almost  ashamed  to  mention  that,  notwithstanding  her  seeming 
delicacy,  she  has  a  most  voracious  appetite,  and  devours  everything  that 
comes  in  her  way  ;  though,  like  other  eager  thin  people,  she  does  no 
credit  to  her  keeping.  Many  a  time  she  has  consumed  the  product  of  my 
barns  and  storehouses,  but  it  is  all  lost  upon  her.  She  has  even  been 
known  to  get  into  an  oilshop  or  tallow-chandler's,  when  everybody  was 
asleep,  and  lick  up  with  the  utmost  greediness  whatever  she  found  there. 
Indeed,  all  prudent  people  are  aware  of  her  tricks,  and  though  she  is 
admitted  into  the  best  families,  they  take  care  to  watch  her  very  narrowly. 
I  should  not  forget  to  mention,  that  my  sister  was  once  in  a  country  where 
she  was  treated  with  uncommon  respect;  she  was  lodged  in  a  sumptuous 
building,  and  had  a  number  of  young  women  of  the  best  families  to  attend 
on  her,  and  feed  her,  and  watch  over  her  health  :  in  short,  she  was  looked 
upon  as  something  more  than  a  common  mortal.  But  she  always  behaved 
with  great  severity  to  her  maids,  and  if  any  of  them  were  negligent  of 
their  duty,  or  made  a  slip  in  their  own  conduct,  nothing  would  serve  her 


342  TWENTY-EIGHTH    EVENING. 

but  burying  the  poor  girls  alive.  I  have  myself  had  some  dark  hints  and 
intimations  from  the  most  respectable  authority,  that  she  will  some  time 
or  other  make  an  end  of  me.  You  need  not  wonder,  therefore,  if  I  am 
jealous  of  her  motions. 

The  next  sister  I  shall  mention  to  you  has  so  far  the  appearance  of 
modesty  and  humility,  that  she  generally  seeks  the  lowest  place.  She  is 
indeed  of  a  very  yielding  easy  temper,  generally  cool,  and  often  wears  a 
sweet  placid  smile  upon  her  countenance  ;  but  she  is  easily  ruffled,  and 
when  worked  up,  as  she  often  is,  by  another  sister,  whom  I  shall  mention 
to  you  by-and-by,  she  becomes  a  perfect  fury.  Indeed,  she  is  so  apt  to 
swell  with  sudden  gusts  of  passion,  that  she  is  suspected  at  times  to  be  a 
little  lunatic.  Between  her  and  my  first-mentioned  sister,  there  is  a  more 
settled  antipathy  than  between  the  Theban  pair;  and  they  never  meet 
without  making  efforts  to  destroy  one  another.  With  me  she  is  always 
ready  to  form  the  most  intimate  union,  but  it  is  not  always  to  my  advantage. 
There  goes  a  story  in  our  family,  that  when  we  were  all  young,  she  once 
attempted  to  drown  me.  She  actually  kept  me  under  water  a  considera- 
ble time,  and  though  at  length  I  got  my  head  above  water,  my  constitution 
is  generally  thought  to  have  been  essentially  injured  by  it  ever  since. 
From  that  time  she  has  made  no  such  atrocious  attempt,  but  she  is  con- 
tinually making  encroachments  upon  my  property,  and  even  when  she 
appears  most  gentle,  she  is  very  insidious,  and  has  such  an  undermining 
way  with  her,  that  her  insinuating  arts  are  as  much  to  be  dreaded  as  open 
violence.  I  might  indeed  remonstrate,  but  it  is  a  known  part  of  her 
character,  that  nothing  makes  any  lasting  impression  upon  her. 

As  to  my  third  sister,  I  have  already  mentioned  the  ill  office  she  does 
me  with  my  last-mentioned  one,  who  is  entirely  under  her  influence.  She 
is  besides  of  a  very  uncertain,  variable  temper,  sometimes  hot,  and  some- 
times cold,  nobody  knows  where  to  have  her.  Her  lightness  is  ever 
proverbial,  and  she  has  nothing  to  give  those  who  live  with  her  more 
substantial  than  the  smiles  of  courtiers.  I  must  add,  that  she  keeps  in 
her  service  three  or  four  rough  blustering  bullies,  with  puffed  cheeks,  who 
when  they  are  let  loose,  think  they  have  nothing  to  do  but  drive  the  world 
before  them.  She  sometimes  joins  with  my  first  sister,  and  their  violence 
occasionally  throws  me  into  such  a  trembling,  that,  though  naturally  of  a 
firm  constitution,  I  shake  as  if  I  was  in  an  ague  fit. 

As  to  myself,  I  am  of  a  steady,  solid  temper;  not  shining,  indeed,  but 
kind  and  liberal,  quite  a  Lady  Bountiful.     Every  one  tastes  of  my  benefi- 


THE    FOUR    SISTERS.  343 

cence,  and  I  am  of  so  grateful  a  disposition,  that  I  have  been  known  to 
return  a  hundred-fold  for  any  present  that  has  been  made  me.  I  feed  and 
clothe  all  my  children,  and  afford  a  welcome  home  to  the  wretch  who  has 
no  other.  I  bear  with  unrepining  patience  all  manner  of  ill  usage  ;  I  am 
trampled  upon,  I  am  torn  and  wounded  with  the  most  cutting  strokes ;  I 
am  pillaged  of  the  treasures  hidden  in  my  most  secret  chambers ;  not- 
withstanding which  I  am  always  ready  to  return  good  for  evil,  and  am 
continually  subservient  to  the  pleasures  or  advantage  of  others ;  yet  so 
ungrateful  is  the  world,  that  because  I  do  not  possess  all  the  airiness  and 
activity  of  my  sisters,  I  am  stigmatized  as  dull  and  heavy.  Every  sordid, 
miserly  fellow  is  called  by  way  of  derision  one  of  my  children ;  and  if  a 
person  on  entering  a  room  does  but  turn  his  eyes  upon  me,  he  is  thought 
stupid  and  mean,  and  not  fit  for  good  company.  I  have  the  satisfaction, 
however,  of  finding  that  people  always  incline  towards  me  as  they  grow 
older;  and  that  those  who  seemed  proudly  to  disdain  any  affinity  with 
me,  are  content  to  sink  at  last  into  my  bosom.  You  will  probably  wish 
to  have  some  account  of  my  person.  I  am  not  a  regular  beauty ;  some  of 
my  features  are  rather  harsh  and  prominent,  when  viewed  separately ; 
but  my  countenance  has  so  much  variety  of  expression,  and  so  many 
different  aspects  of  elegance,  that  those  who  study  my  face  with  attention 
find  out  continually  new  charms  ;  and  it  may  be  truly  said  of  me,  what 
Titus  says  of  his  mistress,  and  for  a  much  longer  space  : — 

"Pendant  cinq  ans  entires  tous  les  jours  je  la  vois, 
Et  crois  toujours  la  voir  pour  la  premiere  fois." 

"  For  five  whole  years  each  day  she  meets  my  view, 
Yet  every  day  I  seem  to  see  her  new." 

Though  I  have  been  so  long  a  mother,  I  have  still  a  surprising  air  of 
youth  and  freshness,  which  is  assisted  by  all  the  advantages  of  well-chosen 
ornament,  for  I  dress  well,  and  according  to  the  season. 

This  is  what  I  have  to  say  chiefly  of  myself  and  my  sisters.  To  a 
person  of  your  sagacity  it  will  be  unnecessary  for  me  to  sign  my  name. 
Indeed,  one  who  becomes  acquainted  with  any  one  of  the  family,  cannot 
be  at  a  loss  to  discover  the  rest,  notwithstanding  the  difference  in  our 
features  and  characters. 


344  TWENTY-EIGHTH    EVENING. 


THE  GAIN  OF  A  LOSS. 


Philander  possessed  a  considerable  place  about  the  court,  which  obliged 
him  to  live  in  a  style  of  show  and  expense.  He  kept  high  company,  made 
frequent  entertainments,  and  brought  up  a  family  of  several  daughters  in 
all  the  luxurious  elegance  which  his  situation  and  prospects  seemed  to 
justify.  His  wife  had  balls  and  routs  at  her  own  house,  and  frequented 
all  the  places  of  fashionable  amusement.  After  some  years  passed  in  this 
manner,  a  sudden  change  of  parties  threw  Philander  out  of  his  employ- 
ment, and  at  once  ruined  all  his  plans  of  future  advancement.  Though 
his  place  had  been  lucrative,  the  expense  it  led  him  into  more  than  com- 
pensated the  profits,  so  that,  instead  of  saving  anything,  he  had  involved 
himself  considerably  in  debt.  His  creditors,  on  hearing  of  the  change  in 
his  affairs,  became  so  importunate,  that,  in  order  to  satisfy  them,  he  was 
compelled  to  sell  a  moderate  paternal  estate  in  a  remote  county,  reserving 
nothing  out  of  it  but  one  small  farm.  Philander  had  strength  of  mind 
sufficient  to  enable  him  at  once  to  decide  on  the  best  plan  to  be  followed 
in  his  present  circumstances ;  instead,  therefore,  of  wasting  his  time  and 
remaining  property  in  fruitless  attempts  to  interest  his  town  friends  in  his 
favour,  he  sold  orf  his  fine  furniture,  and  without  delay  carried  down  his 
whole  family  to  the  little  spot  he  could  still  call  his  own,  where  he  com- 
menced a  life  of  industry  and  strict  frugality  in  the  capacity  of  a  small 
farmer.  It  was  long  before  the  female  part  of  his  household  could  accom- 
modate themselves  to  a  mode  of  living  so  new  to  them,  and  so  destitute 
of  all  that  they  had  been  accustomed  to  regard  as  essential  to  their  very 
existence.  At  length,  however,  mutual  affection  and  natural  good  sense, 
and  above  all,  necessity,  brought  them  to  acquiesce  tolerably  in  their 
situation,  and  to  engage  in  earnest  in  its  duties.  Occasional  regrets, 
however,  could  not  but  remain ;  and  the  silent  sigh  would  tell  whither 
their  thoughts  were  fled. 

Philander  perceived  it,  but  took  care  never  to  embitter  their  feelings  by 
harsh  chidings  or  untimely  admonitions.  But  on  the  anniversary  of  their 
taking  possession  of  the  farmhouse,  he  assembled  them  under  a  spreading 
tree  that  grew  before  their  little  garden,  and  while  the  summer's  sun  gilded 
all  the  objects  around,  he  thus  addressed  them : — 

"  My  dear  partners  in  every  fortune,  if  the  revolution  of  a  year  has  had 
the  effect  on  your  mind  that  it  has  on  mine,  I  may  congratulate  you  on 
your  condition.     I  am  now  able  with  a  firm  tone  to  ask  myself,  what  have 


THE    GAIN    OF    A    LOSS.  345 

I  lost?  and  I  feel  so  much  more  to  be  pleased  with  than  to  regret,  that  the 
question  gives  me  rather  comfort  than  sorrow.  Look  at  yon  splendid 
luminary,  and  tell  me  if  its  gradual  appearance  above  the  horizon  on  a  fine 
morning,  shedding  light  and  joy  over  the  wide  creation,  be  not  a  grander 
as  well  as  a  more  heart-cheering  spectacle  than  that  of  the  most  magnifi- 
cent saloon,  illuminated  with  dazzling  lustres.  Is  not  the  spirit  of  the 
wholesome  breeze,  fresh  from  the  mountain,  and  perfumed  with  wild 
flowers,  infinitely  more  invigorating  to  the  senses  than  the  air  of  the 
crowded  drawing-room,  loaded  with  scented  powder  and  essences  ?  Did 
we  relish  so  well  the  disguised  dishes  with  which  a  French  cook  strove  to 
whet  our  sickly  appetites,  as  we  do  our  draught  of  new  milk,  our  home- 
made loaf,  and  the  other  articles  of  our  simple  fare?  Was  our  sleep  so 
sweet  after  midnight  suppers  and  the  long  vigils  of  cards,  as  it  is  now, 
that  early  rising  and  the  exercises  of  the  day  prepare  us  for  closing  our 
eyes  as  soon  as  night  has  covered  everything  with  her  friendly  veil  ? 
Shall  we  complain  that  our  clothes  at  present  only  answer  the  purpose  of 
keeping  us  warm,  when  we  recollect  all  the  care  and  pains  it  cost  us  to 
keep  pace  with  the  fashion,  and  the  mortification  we  underwent  at  being 
outshone  by  our  superiors  in  fortune  ?  Did  not  the  vexation  of  insolent 
and  unfaithful  servants  overbalance  the  trouble  we  now  find  in  waiting  on 
ourselves?  We  may  regret  the  loss  of  society  ;  but,  alas  !  what  was  the 
society  of  a  crowd  of  visiters  who  regarded  us  merely  as  the  keepers  of  a 
place  of  public  resort,  and  whom  we  visited  with  similar  sensations  ?  If 
we  formerly  could  command  leisure  to  cultivate  our  minds  and  acquire 
polite  accomplishments,  did  we,  in  reality,  apply  much  leisure  to  these 
purposes,  and  is  not  our  time  now  filled  more  to  our  satisfaction  by 
employments  of  which  we  cannot  doubt  the  usefulness  ?  not  to  say  that 
the  moral  virtues  we  are  now  called  upon  to  exercise  afford  the  truest 
cultivation  to  our  minds.  What,  then,  have  we  lost  ?  In  improved  health, 
the  charms  of  a  beautiful  country,  a  decent  supply  of  all  real  wants,  and 
the  love  and  kind  offices  of  each  other,  do  not  we  still  possess  enough  for 
worldly  happiness  ?  We  have  lost,  indeed,  a  certain  rank  and  station  in 
life ;  but  have  we  not  acquired  another  as  truly  respectable  ?  We  are 
debarred  the  prospects  of  future  advancement ;  but  if  our  present  condition 
is  a  good  one,  why  need  we  lament  that  it  is  likely  to  be  lasting?  The 
next  anniversary  will  find  us  more  in  harmony  with  our  situation  than 
even  the  present.  Look  forward,  then,  cheerily.  The  storm  is  past.  We 
have  been  shipwrecked,  but  we  have  only  exchanged  a  cumbrous  vessel 

15* 


316  TWENTY-EIGHTH    EVENING. 

for  a  light  pinnace,  and  we  are  again  on  our  course.     Much  of  our  cargo 
has  been  thrown  overboard,  but  no  one  loses  what  he  does  not  miss." 

Thus  saying,  Philander  tenderly  embraced  his  wife  and  daughters. 
The  tear  stood  in  their  eyes,  but  consolation  beamed  on  their  hearts. 

WISE  MEN. 

"You  may  remember,  Arthur,"  said  Mr.  C.  to  his  son,  "that,  some- 
time ago,  I  endeavoured  to  give  you  a  notion  what  a  great  man  was. 
Suppose  we  now  talk  a  little  about  wise  men?" 

"  With  all  my  heart,  sir,"  replied  Arthur. 

Mr.  C.  A  wise  man,  then,  is  he  who  pursues  the  best  ends  by  the 
properest  means.  But  as  this  definition  may  be  rather  too  abstract  to 
give  you  a  clear  comprehension  of  the  thing,  I  shall  open  it  to  you  by 
examples.     What  do  you  think  is  the  best  end  a  man  can  pursue  in  life  ? 

Ar.  I  suppose  to  make  himself  happy. 

Mr.  C.  True.  And  as  we  are  so  constituted  that  we  cannot  be  happy 
ourselves  without  making  others  happy,  the  best  end  of  living  is  to 
produce  as  much  general  happiness  as  lies  in  our  power. 

Ar.  But  that  is  goodness,  is  it  not? 

Air.  C.  It  is;  and  therefore  wisdom  includes  goodness.  The  wise  man 
a  ways  intends  what  is  good,  and  employs  skill  or  judgment  in  attaining 
it.  If  he  were  to  pursue  the  best  things  weakly,  he  could  not  be  wise ; 
any  more  than  if  he  were  to  pursue  bad  or  indifferent  things  judiciously. 
One  of  the  wisest  men  I  know  is  our  neighbour  Mr.  Freeland. 

Ar.  What,  the  justice? 

Mr.  C.  Yes,  few  men  have  succeeded  more  perfectly  in  securing  their 
own  happiness,  and  promoting  that  of  those  around  them.  Born  to  a 
competent  estate,  he  early  settled  upon  it,  and  began  to  improve  it.  He 
reduced  all  his  expenses  within  his  income,  and  indulged  no  tastes  that 
could  lead  him  into  excesses  of  any  kind.  At  the  same  time  he  did  not 
refuse  any  proper  and  innocent  pleasures  that  came  in  his  way;  and  his 
house  has  always  been  distinguished  for  decent  cheerfulness  and  hospitality. 
He  applied  himself  with  diligence  to  mending  the  morals  and  improving 
the  condition  of  his  dependants.  He  studied  attentively  the  laws  of  his 
country,  and  qualified  himself  for  administering  justice  with  skill  and 
fidelity.  No  one  discovers  sooner  where  the  right  lies,  or  takes  surer 
means  to  enforce  it.  He  is  the  person  to  whom  the  neighbours  of  all 
degrees  apply   for  counsel  in  their  difficulties.     His  conduct  is  always 


WISE    MEN.  34T 

consistent  and  uniform — never  violent,  never  rash,  never  in  extremes,  but 
always  deliberating  before  he  acts,  and  then  acting  with  firmness  and 
vigour.  The  peace  and  good  order  of  the  whole  neighbourhood  materially 
depend  upon  him;  and  upon  every  emergency  his  opinion  is  the  first 
thing  inquired  after.  He  enjoys  the  respect  of  the  rich,  the  confidence  of 
the  poor,  and  the  good-will  of  both. 

Ar.  But  I  have  heard  some  people  reckon  old  Harpy  as  wise  a  man  as  he. 

Mr.  C.  It  is  a  great  abuse  of  words  to  call  Harpy  a  wise  man.  He  is 
of  another  species — a  cunning  man — who  is  to  a  wise  man  what  an  ape 
is  to  a  human  creature — a  bad  and  contemptible  resemblance. 

Ar.  He  is  very  clever,  though;  is  he  not? 

Mr.  C.  Harpy  has  a  good  natural  understanding,  a  clear  head,  and  a 
cool  temper;  but  his  only  end  in  life  has  been  to  raise  a  fortune  by  base 
and  dishonest  means.  Being  thoroughly  acquainted  with  all  the  tricks 
and  artifices  of  the  law,  he  employed  his  knowledge  to  take  undue 
advantages  of  all  who  intrusted  him  with  the  management  of  their  affairs  ; 
and  un'der  colour  of  assisting  them,  he  contrived  to  get  possession  of  all 
their  property.  Thus  he  has  become  extremely  rich,  lives  in  a  great 
house. with  a  number  of  servants,  is  even  visited  by  persons  of  rank,  yet  is 
universally  detested  and  despised,  and  has  not  a  friend  in  the  world.  He 
is  conscious  of  this,  and  is  wretched.  Suspicion  and  remorse  continually 
prey  upon  his  mind.  Of  all  whom  he  has  cheated,  he  has  deceived  himself 
the  most ;  and  has  proved  himself  as  much  a  fool  in  the  end  he  has 
pursued,  as  a  knave  in  the  means. 

Ar.  Are  not  men  of  great  learning  and  knowledge  wise  men? 

Mr.  C.  They  are  so,  if  that  knowledge  and  learning  are  employed  to 
make  them  happier  and  more  useful.  But  it  too  often  happens  that  their 
speculations  are  of  a  kind  neither  beneficial  to  themselves  nor  to  others; 
and  they  often  neglect  to  regulate  their  tempers  while  they  improve  their 
understandings.  Some  men  of  great  learning  have  been  the  most  arrogant 
and  quarrelsome  of  mortals,  and  as  foolish  and  absurd  in  their  conduct  as 
the  most  untaught  of  their  species. 

Ar.  But  are  not  a  philosopher  and  a  wise  man  the  same  thing? 

Mr.  C.  A  philosopher  is  properly  a  lover  of  wisdom  ;  and  if  he  searches 
after  it  with  a  right  disposition,  he  will  probably  find  it  oftener  than  other 
men.     But  he  must  practise  as  well  as  know,  in  order  to  be  truly  wise. 
Ar.  I  have  read  of  the  seven  wise  men  of  Greece.     What  were  they  ? 
Mr.  C.  They  were  men  distinguished  for  their  knowledge  and  talents, 


348  TWENTY-EIGHTH    EVENING. 

and  some  of  them  for  their  virtue,  too.  But  a  wiser  than  them  all  was 
Socrates,  whose  chief  praise  it  was  that  he  turned  philosophy  from  vain 
and  fruitless  disputation  to  the  regulation  of  life  and  manners,  and  that 
he  was  himself  a  great  example  of  the  wisdom  he  taught. 

Ar.  Have  we  had  any  person  lately  very  remarkable  for  wisdom  ? 

Mr.  C.  In  my  opinion,  few  wiser  men  have  ever  existed  than  the  late 
Dr.  Franklin,  the  American.  From  the  low  station  of  journeyman-printer 
to  the  elevated  one  of  ambassador  plenipotentiary  from  his  country  to  the 
court  of  France,  he  always  distinguished  himself  by  sagacity  in  discovering, 
and  good  sense  in  practising,  what  was  most  beneficial  to  himself  and 
others.  He  was  a  great  natural  philosopher,  and  made  some  very  brilliant 
discoveries ;  but  it  was  ever  his  favourite  purpose  to  turn  everything  to 
use,  and  to  extract  some  practical  advantage  from  his  speculations.  He 
thoroughly  understood  common  life,  and  all  that  conduces  to  its  comfort; 
and  he  has  left  behind  him  treasures  of  domestic  wisdom,  superior,  perhaps, 
to  any  of  the  boasted  maxims  of  antiquity.  He  never  let  slip  any 
opportunity  of  improving  his  knowledge,  whether  of  great  things  or  ot 
small;  and  was  equally  ready  to  converse  with  a  day-labourer  and  a 
prime-minister  upon  topics  from  which  he  might  derive  instruction.  He 
rose  to  wealth,  but  obtained  it  by  honourable  means.  He  prolonged  his 
life  by  temperance  to  a  great  age,  and  enjoyed  it  to  the  last.  Few  men 
knew  more  than  he,  and  none  employed  knowledge  to  better  purposes. 

Ar.  A  man,  then,  I  suppose,  cannot  be  wise  without  knowing  a  great  deal  ? 

Mr.  C.  If  he  knows  everything  belonging  to  his  station,  it  is  wisdom 
enough ;  and  a  peasant  may  be  as  truly  wise  in  his  place  as  a  statesman 
or  a  legislator.  You  remember  that  fable  of  Gay,  in  which  a  shepherd 
gives  lessons  of  wisdom  to  a  philosopher. 

Ar.  O  yes — it  begins  : — 

"  Remote  from  cities  lived  a  swain." 

Mr.  C.  True.  He  is  represented  as  drawing  all  his  maxims  of  conduct 
from  observation  of  brute  animals.  And  they,  indeed,  have  universally 
that  character  of  wisdom,  of  pursuing  the  ends  best  suited  to  them  by  the 
properest  means.  But  this  is  owing  to  the  impulse  of  unerring  instinct. 
Man  has  reason  for  his  guide,  and  his  wisdom  can  only  be  the  consequence 
of  the  right  use  of  his  reason.  This  will  lead  him  to  virtue.  Thus  the 
fable  we  have  been  mentioning  rightly  concludes  with — 

" '  Thy  fame  is  just/  the  sage  replies ; 
'Thy  virtue  proves  thee  truly  wise.1 " 


EVENING  XXIX. 


A  FRIEND  IN  NEED. 

George  Cornish,  a  native  of  London,  was  brought  up  to  the  sea. 
After  making  several  voyages  to  the  East  Indies  in  the  capacity  of  mate, 
he  obtained  the  command  of  a  ship  in  the  country-trade  there,  and  passed 
many  years  of  his  life  in  sailing  from  one  port  to  another  of  the 
Company's  different  settlements,  and  residing  at  intervals  on  shore  with 
the  superintendence  of  their  commercial  concerns.  Having  by  these 
means  raised  a  moderate  fortune,  and  being  now  beyond  the  meridian  of 
life,  he  felt  a  strong  desire  of  returning  to  his  native  country,  and  seeing 

349 


350  TWENTY-NINTH    EVENING. 

his  family  and  friends,  concerning  whom  he  had  received  no  tidings  for  a 
long  time.  He  realized  his  property,  settled  his  affairs,  and  taking  his 
passage  for  England,  arrived  in  the  Downs  after  an  absence  of  sixteen 
years. 

He  immediately  repaired  to  London,  and  went  to  the  house  of  an  only 
brother  whom  he  had  left  possessed  of  a  genteel  place  in  a  public  office. 
He  found  that  his  brother  was  dead,  and  the  family  broken  up ;  and  he 
was  directed  to  the  house  of  one  of  his  nieces,  who  was  married  and 
settled  at  a  small  distance  from  town.  On  making  himself  known,  he 
was  received  with  great  respect  and  affection  by  the  married  niece,  and  a 
single  sister  who  resided  with  her ;  to  which  good  reception  the  idea  of 
his  bringing  back  with  him  a  large  fortune  did  not  a  little  contribute. 
They  pressed  him  in  the  most  urgent  manner  to  take  up  his  abode  there, 
and  omitted  nothing  that  could  testify  their  dutiful  regard  to  so  near  a 
relation.  On  his  part,  he  was  sincerely  glad  to  see  them,  and  presented 
them  with  some  valuable  Indian  commodities  which  he  had  brought  with 
him.  They  soon  fell  into  conversation  concerning  the  family  events  that 
had  taken  place  during  his  long  absence.  Mutual  condolences  passed  on 
the  death  of  the  father ;  the  mother  had  been  dead  long  before.  The 
captain,  in  the  warmth  of  his  heart,  declared  his  intention  of  befriending 
the  survivors  of  the  family,  and  his  wishes  of  seeing  the  second  sister  as 
comfortably  settled  in  the  world  as  the  first  seemed  to  be. 

"  But,"  said  he,  "are  you  two  the  only  ones  left  ?  What  is  become  of 
my  little  smiling  playfellow  Amelia?  I  remember  her  as  if  it  were 
yesterday,  coming  behind  my  chair,  and  giving  me  a  sly  pull,  and  then 
running  away  that  I  might  follow  her  for  a  kiss.  I  should  be  sorry  if 
anything  had  happened  to  her." — "Alas!  sir,"  said  the  eldest  niece, 
"  she  has  been  the  cause  of  an  infinite  deal  of  trouble  to  her  friends  !  She 
was  always  a  giddy  girl,  and  her  misconduct  has  proved  her  ruin.  It 
would  be  happy  if  we  could  all  forget  her  !" — "  What,  then,"  said  the 
uncle,  "  has  she  dishonoured  herself?  Poor  creature !" — "  I  cannot  say," 
replied  the  niece,  "  that  she  has  done  so  in  the  worst  sense  of  the  word  ; 
but  she  has  disgraced  herself  and  her  family  by  a  hasty  foolish  match 
with  one  beneath  her,  and  it  is  ended,  as  might  have  been  expected,  in 
poverty  and  wretchedness." — "  I  am  glad,"  returned  the  captain,  "  that  it 
is  no  worse ;  for  though  I  much  disapprove  of  improper  matches,  yet 
young  girls  may  fall  into  still  greater  evils,  and  where  there  is  no  crime, 
there  can  be  no  irreparable  disgrace.     But  who  was  the  man,  and  what 


A    FRIEND    IN    NEED.  351 

did  my  brother  say  to  it  ?"— "  Why,  sir,  I  cannot  say  but  it  was  partly  my 
father's  own  fault ;  for  he  took  a  sort  of  liking  to  the  young  man,  who 
was  a  drawing-master  employed  in  the  family,  and  would  not  forbid  him 
the  house,  after  we  had  informed  him  of  the  danger  of  an  attachment 
between  Amelia  and  him.  So  when  it  was  too  late,  he  fell  into  a  violent 
passion  about  it,  which  had  no  other  effect  than  to  drive  the  girl  directly 
into  her  lover's  arms.  They  married,  and  soon  fell  into  difficulties.  My 
father  of  course  would  do  nothing  for  them ;  and  when  he  died,  he  not 
only  disinherited  her,  but  made  us  promise  no  longer  to  look  upon  her  as 
a  sister." — a  And  you  did  make  that  promise  ?"  said  the  captain,  in  a  tone 
of  surprise  and  displeasure.  "  We  could  not  disobey  our  parent,"  replied 
the  other  sister ;  "  but  we  have  several  times  sent  her  relief  in  her  necessi- 
ties, though  it  was  improper  for  us  to  see  her." — "  And  pray,  what  has 
become  of  her  at  last — where  is  she  now  V* — "  Really,  she  and  her  husband 
have  shifted  their  lodgings  so  often,  that  it  is  sometime  since  we  heard 
anything  about  them." — "  Sometime  !  how  long  ?" — "  Perhaps  half  a  year 
or  more." — "  Poor  outcast !"  cried  the  captain,  in  a  sort  of  muttered  half- 
voice  ;  "  /  have  made  no  promise,  however,  to  renounce  thee.  Be  pleased, 
madam,"  he  continued,  addressing  himself  gravely  to  the  married  niece, 
"  to  favour  me  with  the  last  direction  you  had  to  this  unfortunate  sister." 
She  blushed  and  looked  confused  ;  and  at  length,  after  a  good  deal  ol 
searching,  presented  it  to  her  uncle.  "  But,  my  dear  sir,"  said  she,  "  you 
will  not  think  of  leaving  us  to-day  1  My  servant  shall  make  all  the 
inquiries  you  choose,  and  save  you  the  trouble  ;  and  to-morrow  you  can 
ride  to  town,  and  do  as  you  think  proper." — "  My  good  niece,"  said  the 
captain,  "  I  am  but  an  indifferent  sleeper,  and  I  am  afraid  things  would 
run  in  my  head  and  keep  me  awake.  Besides,  I  am  naturally  impatient, 
and  love  to  do  my  business  myself.  You  will  excuse  me." — So  saying, 
he  took  up  his  hat,  and  without  much  ceremony,  went  out  of  the  house, 
and  took  the  road  to  town  on  foot,  leaving  his  two  nieces  somewhat 
disconcerted. 

When  he  arrived,  he  went  without  delay  to  the  place  mentioned,  which 
was  a  by-street  near  Soho.  The  people  who  kept  the  lodgings  informed 
him,  that  the  persons  he  inquired  after  had  left  them  several  months,  and 
they  did  not  know  what  was  become  of  them.  This  threw  the  captain 
into  great  perplexity  ;  but  while  he  was  considering  what  he  should  do 
next,  the  woman  of  the  house  recollected  that  Mr.  Bland  (that  was  the 
drawing-master's  name)  had  been  employed  at  a  certain  school,  where 


352  TWENTY-NINTH    EVENING. 

information  about  him  might  possibly  be  obtained.  Captain  Cornish 
hastened  away  to  the  place,  and  was  informed  by  the  master  of  the  school 
that  such  a  man  had,  indeed,  been  engaged  there,  but  had  ceased  to 
attend  for  some  time  past.  "  He  was  a  very  well-behaved,  industrious 
young  man,"  added  the  master,  ubut  in  distressed  circumstances,  which 
prevented  him  from  making  that  genteel  appearance  which  we  expect  in 
all  who  attend  our  school ;  so  I  was  obliged  to  dismiss  him.  It  was  a 
great  force  upon  my  feelings,  I  assure  you,  sir,  to  do  so ;  but  you  know 
the  thing  could  not  be  helped."  The  captain  eyed  him  with  indignant 
contempt,  and  said,  "  I  suppose,  then,  sir,  your  feelings  never  suffered 
you  to  inquire  where  this  poor  creature  lodged,  or  what  became  of  him 
afterward?" — "As  to  that,"  replied  the  master,  "every  man  knows  his 
own  business  best,  and  my  time  is  fully  taken  up  with  my  own  concerns  ; 
but  I  believe  I  have  a  note  of  the  lodgings  he  then  occupied — here  it  is." 
The  captain  took  it,  and  turning  on  his  heel,  withdrew  in  silence. 

He  posted  away  to  the  place,  but  there,  too,  had  the  mortification  of 
learning  that  he  was  too  late.  The  people,  however,  told  him  that  they 
believed  he  might  find  the  family  he  was  seeking  in  a  neighbouring  alley, 
at  a  lodging  up  three  pair  of  stairs.  The  captain's  heart  sunk  within  him  ; 
however,  taking  a  boy  as  a  guide,  he  proceeded  immediately  to  the  spot. 
On  going  up  the  narrow  creaking  staircase,  he  met  a  man  coming  down 
with  a  bed  on  his  shoulders.  At  the  top  of  the  landing  stood  another  with 
a  bundle  of  blankets  and  sheets.  A  woman  with  a  child  in  her  arms  was 
expostulating  with  him,  and  he  heard  her  exclaim,  "  Cruel !  not  to  leave 
me  one  bed  for  myself  and  my  poor  children  !" — "  Stop,"  said  the  captain 
to  the  man,  "  set  down  those  things."  The  man  hesitated.  The  captain 
renewed  his  command  in  a  peremptory  tone,  and  then  advanced  towards 
the  woman.  They  looked  earnestly  at  each  other.  Through  her  pale 
and  emaciated  features  he  saw  something  of  his  little  smiler ;  and  at 
length,  in  a  faint  voice,  he  addressed  her,  "  Are  you  Amelia  Cornish  ?" — 
"  That  was  my  name,"  she  replied.  "  I  am  your  uncle,"  he  cried,  clasp- 
ing her  in  his  arms,  and  sobbing  as  if  his  heart  would  break.  "  My  uncle!" 
said  she,  and  fainted.  He  was  just  able  to  set  her  down  on  the  only 
remaining  chair,  and  take  her  child  from  her.  Two  other  young  children 
came  running  up,  and  began  to  scream  with  terror.  Amelia  recovered 
herself.  "  Oh,  sir,  what  a  situation  you  see  me  in!"  — "  A  situation, 
indeed !"  said  he.  "  Poor  forsaken  creature  !  but  you  have  one  friend 
left !" 


A    FRIEND    IN    NEED.  353 

He  then  asked  what  was  become  of  her  husband?  She  told  him,  that 
having  fatigued  himself  with  walking  every  day  to  a  great  distance  for  a 
little  employment  that  scarcely  afforded  them  bread,  he  had  fallen  ill,  and 
was  now  in  an  hospital,  and  that  after  having  been  obliged  to  sell  most  of 
their  little  furniture  and  clothes  for  present  subsistence,  their  landlord  had 
just  seized  their  only  remaining  bed  for  some  arrears  of  rent.  The  captain 
immediately  discharged  the  debt,  and  causing  the  bed  to  be  brought  up 
again,  dismissed  the  man.  He  then  entered  into  a  conversation  with  his 
niece  about  the  events  that  had  befallen  her.  "  Alas  !  sir,"  said  she,  "  1 
am  sensible  I  was  greatly  to  blame  in  disobeying  my  father,  and  leaving 
his  roof  as  I  did  ;  but  perhaps  something  might  be  alleged  in  my  excuse — 
at  least,  years  of  calamity  and  distress  may  be  an  expiation.  As  to  my 
husband,  however,  he  has  never  given  me  the  least  cause  of  complaint — 
he  has  ever  been  kind  and  good,  and  what  we  have  suffered  has  been 
through  misfortune,  and  not  fault.  To  be  sure,  when  we  married,  we  did 
not  know  how  a  family  was  to  be  maintained.  His  was  a  poor  employ- 
ment, and  sickness  and  other  accidents  soon  brought  us  to  a  state  of 
poverty,  from  which  we  could  never  retrieve  ourselves.  He,  poor  man ! 
was  never  idle  when  he  could  help  it,  and  denied  himself  every  indul- 
gence in  order  to  provide  for  the  wants  of  me  and  the  children.  I  did  my 
part  too  as  well  as  I  was  able.  But  my  father's  unrelenting  severity  made 
me  quite  heart-broken  ;  and  though  my  sisters  two  or  three  times  gave  us 
a  little  relief  in  our  pressing  necessities — for  nothing  else  could  have  made 
me  ask  in  the  manner  I  did — yet  they  would  never  permit  me  to  see  them, 
and  for  some  time  past  have  entirely  abandoned  us.  I  thought  Heaven 
had  abandoned  us  too.  The  hour  of  extremest  distress  was  come  ;  but 
you  have  been  sent  for  our  comfort." — "  And  your  comfort,  please  God  ! 
I  will  be,"  cried  the  captain  with  energy.  "  You  are  my  own  dear  child, 
and  your  little  ones  shall  be  mine  too.  Dry  up  your  tears — better  days  I 
hope,  are  approaching." 

Evening  was  now  coming  on,  and  it  was  too  late  to  think  of  changing 
lodgings.  The  captain  procured  a  neighbour  to  go  out  for  some  provisions 
and  other  necessaries,  and  then  took  his  leave,  with  a  promise  of  being 
with  his  niece  early  the  next  morning.  Indeed,  as  he  proposed  going  to 
pay  a  visit  to  her  husband,  she  was  far  from  wishing  to  detain  him  longer. 
He  went  directly  thence  to  the  hospital,  and  having  got  access  to  the 
apothecary,  begged  to  be  informed  of  the  real  state  of  his  patient,  Bland. 
The  apothecary  told  him  that  he  laboured  under  •*  slow  fever,  attended 


354  TWENTY-NINTH    EVENING. 

with  extreme  dejection  of  spirits,  but  that  there  were  no  signs  of  urgent 
danger.  "  If  you  will  allow  me  to  see  him,"  said  the  captain,  "I  believe 
I  shall  be  able  to  administer  a  cordial  more  effectual,  perhaps,  than  all 
your  medicines."  He  was  shown  up  to  the  ward  where  the  poor  man 
lay,  and,  seated  by  his  bedside,  "  Mr.  Bland,"  said  he,  "  I  am  a  stranger 
to  you,  but  I  come  to  bring  you  some  news  of  your  family."  The  sick 
man  roused  himself,  as  it  were,  from  a  stupor,  and  fixed  his  eyes  in  silence 
on  the  captain.  He  proceeded — "Perhaps  you  may  have  heard  of  an 
uncle  that  your  wife  had  in  the  East  Indies — he  is  come  home,  and — and 
— I  am  he."  Upon  this  he  eagerly  stretched  out  his  hand,  and  taking 
that  of  Bland,  which  was  thrust  out  of  the  bedclothes  to  meet  it,  gave  it 
a  cordial  shake.  The  sick  man's  eyes  glistened — he  grasped  the  captain's 
hand  with  all  his  remaining  strength,  and  drawing  it  to  his  mouth,  kissed 
it  with  fervour.  All  he  could  say  was,  "  God  bless  you ! — be  kind  to  poor 
Amelia !" — "  I  will — I  will,"  cried  the  captain,  "  I  will  be  a  father  to  you 
all.  Cheer  up — keep  up  your  spirits — all  will  be  well ."  He  then,  with 
a  kind  look  and  another  shake  of  the  hand,  wished  him  a  good  night,  and 
left  the  poor  man  lightened  at  once  of  half  his  disease. 

The  captain  went  home  to  the  coffee-house  where  he  lodged,  got  a  light 
supper,  and  went  early  to  bed.  After  meditating  sometime  with  heartfelt 
satisfaction  on  the  work  of  the  day,  he  fell  into  a  sweet  sleep,  which  lasted 
till  daybreak.  The  next  morning  early  he  rose  and  sallied  forth  in  search 
of  furnished  lodgings.  After  some  inquiry,  he  met  with  a  commodious 
set,  in  a  pleasant  airy  situation,  for  which  he  agreed.  He  then  drove  to 
Amelia,  and  found  her  and  her  children  neat  and  clean,  and  as  well  dressed 
as  their  poor  wardrobe  would  admit.  He  embraced  them  with  the  utmost 
affection,  and  rejoiced  Amelia's  heart  with  a  favourable  account  of  her 
husband.  He  then  told  them  to  prepare  for  a  ride  with  him.  The  children 
were  overjoyed  at  the  proposal,  and  they  accompanied  him  down  to  the 
coach  in  high  spirits.  Amelia  scarcely  knew  what  to  think  or  expect. 
They  drove  first  to  a  warehouse  for  ready-made  linen,  where  the  captain 
made  Amelia  furnish  herself  with  a  complete  set  of  everything  necessary 
for  present  use  for  the  children  and  herself,  not  forgetting  some  shirts  for 
her  husband.  Thence  they  went  to  a  clothes'  shop,  where  the  little  boy 
was  supplied  with  a  jacket  and  trowsers,  a  hat  and  great  coat,  and  the  girl 
with  another  great  coat  and  a  bonnet — both  were  made  as  happy  as  happy 
could  be.  They  were  next  all  furnished  with  new  shoes.  In  short,  they 
bad  not  proceeded  far,  before  the  mother  and  three  children  were  all  in 


A    FRIEND    IN    NEED.  355 

complete  new  habiliments,  decent  but  not  fine ;  while  the  old  ones  were 
all  tied  up  in  a  great  bundle,  and  destined  for  some  family  still  poorer  than 
they  had  been. 

The  captain  then  drove  to  the  lodgings  he  had  taken,  and  which  he  had 
directed  to  be  put  in  thorough  order.  He  led  Amelia  upstairs,  who  knew 
not  whither  she  was  going.  He  brought  her  into  a  handsome  parlour,  and 
seated  her  in  a  chair.  "  This,  my  dear,"  said  he,  "  is  your  house.  I  hope 
you  will  let  me  now  and  then  come  and  see  you  in  it  ?"  Amelia  turned 
pale  and  could  not  speak.  At  length,  a  flood  of  tears  came  to  her  relief,  and 
she  suddenly  threw  herself  at  her  uncle's  feet,  and  poured  out  thanks  and 
blessings  in  a  broken  voice.  He  raised  her,  and  kindly  kissing  her  and  her 
children,  slipped  a  purse  of  gold  into  her  hand,  and  hurried  downstairs. 

He  next  went  to  the  hospital,  and  found  Mr.  Bland  sitting  up  in  bed, 
and  taking  some  food  with  apparent  pleasure.  He  sat  down  by  him. 
"  God  bless  you  !  sir,"  said  Bland,  "  I  see  now  it  is  all  a  reality,  and  not 
a  dream.  Your  figure  has  been  haunting  me  all  night,  and  I  have  scarcely 
been  able  to  satisfy  myself  whether  I  had  really  seen  and  spoke  to  you,  or 
whether  it  was  a  fit  of  delirium.  Yet  my  spirits  have  been  lightened,  and 
I  have  now  been  eating  with  a  relish  I  have  not  experienced  for  many  days 
past.  But  may  I  ask  how  is  my  poor  Amelia  and  my  little  ones  ?" — 
"  They  are  well  and  happy,  my  good  friend ;"  said  the  captain,  "  and  I 
hope  you  will  soon  be  so  along  with  them."  The  apothecary  came  up 
and  felt  his  patient's  pulse.  "You  are  a  lucky  doctor,  indeed,  sir,"  said 
he  to  Captain  Cornish,  "  you  have  cured  the  poor  man  of  his  fever.  His 
pulse  is  as  calm  as  my  own."  The  captain  consulted  him  about  the  safety 
of  removing  him ;  and  the  apothecary  thought  that  there  would  be  no 
hazard  in  doing  it  that  very  day.  The  captain  waited  the  arrival  of  the 
physician,  who  confirmed  the  same  opinion.  A  sedan-chair  was  procured, 
and  full  directions  being  obtained  for  the  future  treatment,  with  the  phy- 
sician's promise  to  look  after  him,  the  captain  walked  before  the  chair,  to 
the  new  lodgings.  On  the  knock  at  the  door,  Amelia  looked  out  of  the 
window,  and  seeing  the  chair,  ran  down,  and  met  her  uncle  and  husbanu 
in  the  passage.  The  poor  man,  not  knowing  where  he  was,  and  gazing 
wildly  around  him,  was  carried  upstairs  and  placed  upon  a  good  bed,  while 
his  wife  and  children  assembled  around  it.  A  glass  of  wine  brought  by 
the  people  of  the  house  restored  him  to  his  recollection,  when  a  most 
tender  scene  ensued,  which  the  uncle  closed  as  soon  as  he  could,  for  fea? 
of  too  much  agitating  the  yet  feeble  organs  of  the  sick  man. 


356  TWENTY-NINTH    EVENING. 

By  Amelia's  constant  attention,  assisted  by  proper  help,  Mr.  Bland 
shortly  recovered;  and  the  whole  family  lost  their  sickly,  emaciated 
appearance,  and  became  healthy  and  happy.  The  kind  uncle  was  never 
Jong  absent  from  them,  and  was  always  received  with  looks  of  pleasure 
and  gratitude  that  penetrated  his  very  soul.  He  obtained  for  Mr.  Bland 
a  good  situation  in  the  exercise  of  his  profession,  and  took  Amelia  and 
her  children  into  his  special  care.  As  to  his  other  nieces,  though  he  did 
not  entirely  break  off  his  connexion  with  them,  but,  on  the  contrary, 
showed  them  occasional  marks  of  the  kindness  of  a  relation,  yet  he  could 
never  look  upon  them  with  true  cordiality.  And  as  they  had  so  well  kept 
their  promise  to  their  father  of  never  treating  Amelia  as  a  sister,  while  in 
her  afflicted  state,  he  took  care  not  to  tempt  them  to  break  it,  now  she  was 
in  a  favoured  and  prosperous  condition. 


A  Secret  Character  Unveiled,  p.  359. 

EVENING  XXX. 


EARTH  AND  HER  CHILDREN. 

In  a  certain  district  of  the  globe  things  one  year  went  so  ill,  that  almost 
the  whole  race  of  living  beings,  animals  and  vegetables,  carried  their 
lamentations  and  complaints  to  their  common  mother  the  Earth. 

First  came  Man.  "  O  Earth,"  said  he,  "  how  can  you  behold  unmoved 
the  intolerable  calamities  of  your  favourite  offspring !  Heaven  shuts  up 
all  the  sources  of  its  benignity  to  us,  and  showers  plagues  and  pestilence 
on  our  heads — storms  tear  to  pieces  all  the  works  of  human  labour — the 
elements  of  fire  and  water  seem  let  loose  to  devour  us — and  in  the  midst 

357 


358  THIRTIETH    EVENING. 

of  all  these  evils  some  demon  possesses  us  with  a  rage  of  worrying  and 
destroying  one  another;  so  that  the  whole  species  seems  doomed  to  perish. 
O,  intercede  in  our  behalf,  or  else  receive  us  again  into  your  maternal 
womb,  and  hide  us  from  the  sight  of  these  accumulated  distresses !" 

The  other  animals  then  spoke  by  their  deputies,  the  horse,  the  ox,  and 
the  sheep.  "O  pity,  mother  Earth,  those  of  your  children  that  repose  on 
your  breast,  and  derive  their  subsistence  from  your  foodful  bosom !  We 
are  parched  with  drought,  we  are  scorched  by  lightning,  we  are  beaten  by 
pitiless  tempests,  salubrious  vegetables  refuse  to  nourish  us,  we  languish 
under  disease,  and  the  race  of  men  treat  us  with  unusual  rigour.  Never, 
without  speedy  succour,  can  we  survive  to  another  year." 

The  vegetables  next,  those  that  form  the  verdant  carpet  of  the  earth, 
that  cover  the  waving  fields  of  harvest,  and  that  spread  their  lofty 
branches  in  the  air,  sent  forth  their  complaint : — "  O,  our  general  mother, 
to  whose  breast  we  cleave,  and  whose  vital  juices  we  drain,  have 
compassion  upon  us !  See,  how  we  wither  and  droop  under  the  baleful 
gales  that  sweep  over  us — how  we  thirst  in  vain  for  the  gentle  dew  of 
Heaven — how  immense  tribes  of  noxious  insects  pierce  and  devour  us — 
how  the  famishing  flocks  and  herds  tear  us  up  by  the  roots — and  how 
men,  through  mutual  spite,  lay  waste  and  destroy  us,  while  yet  immature. 
Already  whole  nations  of  us  are  desolated,  and  unless  you  save  us, 
another  year  will  witness  our  total  destruction." 

"My  children," said  Earth, " I  have  now  existed  some  thousand  years  ; 
and  scarcely  one  of  them  has  passed  in  which  similar  complaints  have 
not  risen  from  one  quarter  or  another.  Nevertheless,  everything  has 
remained  in  nearly  the  same  state,  and  no  species  of  created  beings  has 
been  finally  lost.  The  injuries  of  one  year  are  repaired  by  the  gifts  of 
the  succeeding  one.  The  growing  vegetables  may  be  blasted,  but  the 
seeds  of  others  lie  secure  in  my  bosom,  ready  to  receive  the  vital  influence 
of  more  favourable  seasons.  Animals  may  be  thinned  by  want  and 
disease,  but  a  remnant  is  always  left,  in  whom  survives  the  principle  of 
future  increase.  As  to  man,  who  suffers  not  only  from  natural  causes, 
but  from  the  effects  of  his  own  follies  and  vices,  his  miseries  rouse  within 
him  the  latent  powers  of  remedy,  and  bring  him  to  his  reason  again  ; 
while  experience  continually  goes  along  with  him  to  improve  his  means 
of  happiness,  if  he  will  but  listen  to  its  dictates.  Have  patience,  then,  my 
children !  You  were  born  to  suffer,  as  well  as  to  enjoy,  and  you  must 
submit  to  your  lot.     But  console  vourselves  with  the  thought  that  you 


A    SECRET    CHARACTER    UNVEILED.  359 

have  a  kind  Master  above,  who  created  you  for  benevolent  purposes,  and 
will  not  withhold  his  protection  when  you  stand  most  in  need  of  it." 


A  SECRET  CHARACTER  UNVEILED. 

At  a  small  house  in  a  court  in  London,  there  resided  for  many  years, 
a  person  beyond  the  middle  age  of  life,  whose  family  consisted  of  one 
male  and  one  female  servant,  both  of  long  standing.  He  was  of  grave 
and  somewhat  pensive  aspect.  His  dress  was  perfectly  plain  and  never 
varied.  He  wore  his  own  gray  hair,  and  his  general  appearance  resembled 
that  of  a  Quaker,  though  without  the  peculiarities  of  that  sect.  He  was 
not  known  to  his  neighbours  but  by  sight.  They  frequently  observed 
him  go  out  and  come  in,  almost  always  on  foot,  even  in  the  worst 
weather.  He  did  not  appear  to  keep  any  company,  and  his  mode  of  life 
seemed  to  be  very  uniform.  He  paid  ready  money  to  the  few  tradespeople 
with  whom  he  dealt,  and  never  made  any  one  call  a  second  time  for  dues 
and  taxes.  In  some  charitable  collections  that  were  set  on  foot  in  the 
parish,  he  gave  as  much  as  was  expected  from  him,  and  no  more.  He 
returned  the  salutation  of  the  hat  to  those  who  gave  it  him,  but  never 
exceeded  a  word  or  two  in  conversation  with  his  neighbours.  His  religion 
and  political  sentiments  were  entirely  unknown.  The  general  notion 
about  him  was,  either  that  he  was  a  reduced  gentleman,  obliged  to  live 
privately,  or  one  concerned  in  some  private  money  transactions,  and  bent 
upon  hoarding  a  fortune.  His  name,  from  the  parish-books,  appeared  to 
be  Mortimer. 

After  he  had  thus  lived  a  long  time,  a  train  of  accidental  circumstances 
occurred  within  a  short  space,  which  fully  displayed  his  character. 

In  a  blind  alley  at  some  little  distance,  there  lived  a  poor  widow  who 
had  several  children,  the  eldest  a  beautiful  girl  of  eighteen.  The  woman 
was  very  industrious,  and  supported  her  family  by  taking  in  work  in 
which  her  children  assisted.  It  happened  that  some  of  them,  and  at 
length  herself,  fell  ill  of  a  fever,  which  continued  so  long  as  to  reduce 
them  to  great  distress.  She  was  obliged  to  part  with  many  things  for  a 
present  subsistence ;  and,  on  their  recovery,  a  half-year's  rent  being  due 
which  she  was  unable  to  pay,  the  landlord  threatened  to  seize  the 
remainder  of  her  goods,  and  turn  her  and  her  children  into  the  street. 
He  intimated,  however,  that  it  might  be  in  the  power  of  the  eldest 
daughter  to  settle  accounts  with  him  in  a  less  difficult  manner ;  but  his 


360  THIRTIETH    EVENING. 

hints  were  treated  with  virtuous  disdain.  The  girl  had  a  faithful  lover, 
a  journeyman-carpenter,  who,  during  the  illness  of  the  family,  contributed 
half  his  wages  to  their  support,  and  now  by  promises  endeavoured  to 
mollify  the  landlord,  but  in  vain.  He  was  coming  disconsolately  one 
night  after  work  to  pay  his  usual  visit  to  the  distressed  family,  when  he 
observed  Mr.  Mortimer,  whom  he  knew,  having  worked  at  his  house, 
stealing  upstairs  to  the  widow's  lodging.  The  suspicion  natural  to  a 
lover  led  him  to  follow.  He  saw  him  open  the  door,  and  he  entered 
unperceived  after  him.  Mr.  Mortimer  walked  into  the  room  where  were 
all  the  poor  family ;  the  mother  and  eldest  daughter  weeping  over  the 
rest.  They  showed  much  surprise  at  his  approach,  and  still  more,  when, 
going  up  to  the  widow,  he  put  a  purse  of  guineas  into  her  hand,  and 
immediately  turned  about  and  went  away.  "What  angel  from  heaven," 
cried  the  poor  woman,  "  has  brought  me  this?  Run  after  him,  daughter, 
and  thank  him  on  your  knees  !"  She  ran,  but  he  was  got  almost  down 
stairs.  "  I  know  him,"  cried  the  journeyman-carpenter,  making  his 
appearance,  "  't  is  Mr.  Mortimer." 

In  a  chamber  of  a  house  in  an  obscure  part  of  the  town  a  gang  of 
clippers  and  coiners  were  detected  by  the  officers  of  justice.  A  poor  lame 
fellow,  who  lived  in  the  adjoining  room,  was  brought  along  with  the  rest 
for  examination.     "  Well,"  said  one  of  the  justices,  "  and  who  are  you  ?" 

"  Please  your  worship,  I  am  a  poor  man  who  have  lost  the  use  of  my 
limbs  these  seven  years." 

"And  how  have  you  been  supported  all  that  time?" 

"  Why,  sir,  I  might  have  starved  long  ago,  as  I  have  no  settlement  in 
these  parts,  and  the  masters  for  whom  I  worked  would  do  nothing  for  me, 
but  a  very  good  gentleman  has  been  so  kind  as  to  give  me  five  shillings 
a  week  for  these  six  years." 

"  Ay !  you  were  lucky,  indeed,  to  light  upon  such  a  kind  gentleman. 
Pray,  what  is  his  name?" 

"  I  do  n't  know  it,  your  worship." 

"No ! — that's  very  strange,  that  you  should  not  know  the  name  of  the 
person  who  keeps  you  from  starving.     But  where  does  he  live  ?" 

"  Indeed,  sir,  I  do  n't  know  that  neither.  I  know  nothing  at  all  of  him 
but  the  good  he  does  me." 

"Why,  how  came  you  at  first  to  be  acquainted  with  him?" 

"  I  had  just  been  turned  out  of  the  hospital  incurable,  and  was  thinking 
that  nothing  remained  for  me  but  begging  and  starving  in  the  streets, 


A    SECRET    CHARACTER    UNVEILED.  361 

when  the  gentleman  came  up  to  my  poor  lodging  (God  knows  how  fee 
found  it)  and  gave  me  a  guinea  to  buy  some  necessaries,  and  told  me,  if 
C  would  do  what  littie  I  could  to  maintain  myself,  he  would  take  care 
that  I  should  not  want.  And  ever  since,  either  he  or  his  man  has  brought 
me  a  crown  every  week." 

"  This  story,  my  friend,  will  hardly  pass.  But  tell  me  what  trade  you 
worked  at  before  you  lost  the  use  of  your  limbs  ?" 

"  Plating  and  gilding,  your  worship." 

"O!  ho!  Then  you  understand  working  in  metals!  You  must  be 
kept  till  you  give  a  more  probable  account  of  yourself."     ; 

The  poor  man  in  vain  protested  that  every  word  he  had  said  was  true, 
and  offered  to  bring  proof  of  his  honesty  and  sobriety  from  his  neighbours ; 
he  was  ordered  to  a  place  of  confinement  till  further  examination.  The 
constable  was  taking  him  thither,  when  by  good  fortune  he  chanced  to 
spy  his  benefactor  crossing  the  street  just  before  him.  He  called  aloud, 
and  requested  him  to  stop ;  and  then  in  a  piteous  tone  relating  his  story, 
entreated  him  to  go  back  with  them  to  the  justice,  and  bear  witness  in  his 
behalf.  This  could  not  be  refused.  They  were  admitted  into  a  crowded 
hall,  when  the  constable  told  the  cause  of  his  return.  All  eyes  were 
turned  upon  the  gentleman,  who  was  desired  to  give  his  name.  "  It  is 
Mortimer,"  said  he.  He  then,  in  a  few  words,  mentioned,  that  having 
some  years  ago  come  to  the  knowledge  of  the  poor  man's  character  and 
distress,  he  had  since  taken  care  of  him. 

"  'Tis  enough,  sir,"  said  a  gentleman  at  the  board  ;  "  I  have  the  honour 
of  being  a  neighbour  of  yours,  but  I  did  not  before  know  what  a  neighbour 
I  had."  Mr.  Mortimer  bowed  and  retired.  The  poor  fellow  was 
discharged. 

Two  maiden  sisters,  daughters  of  a  very  worthy  tradesman,  whom 
misfortunes  had  reduced  to  poverty,  and  who  died  of  a  broken  heart,  were 
for  several  years  supported  by  an  annuity  of  forty  pounds  each,  which 
came  from  an  unknown  quarter.  The  mode  in  which  they  received  it 
was,  that  twice  a  year,  at  night,  a  person  knocked  at  the  door  of  their 
lodging,  which  was  upon  a  second  floor,  and  delivered  into  the  hands  of 
one  of  them  a  parcel  containing  two  twenty-pound  bank-notes,  with  a 
paper  on  which  was  written,  "  To  be  continued— no  inquiry !"  Though 
this  injunction  prevented  them  from  taking  any  steps  to  detect  their 
benefactor,  yet  many  were  the  conjectures  which,  between  themselves, 
they  made  on  this  subject,  but  without  attaining  to  the  least  probability. 

16 


362  THIRTIETH    EVENING. 

One  night,  about  the  time  that  the  above-related  events  happened,  the 
person,  who  came  as  usual  to  deliver  the  notes,  on  hastily  turning  round 
to  retire,  fell  from  the  top  of  the  stairs  to  the  bottom.  The  lady  shrieked 
out,  and  running  down,  found  the  man  lying  senseless  and  bloody.  Help 
was  procured,  and  he  was  taken  up  to  their  lodging.  A  surgeon  was 
immediately  sent  for,  who,  by  bleeding  and  other  means,  restored  him  to 
his  senses.  As  soon  as  the  man  recovered  his  speech,  he  requested  to  be 
taken  to  his  master's.     "  Who  is  your  master?"  cried  the  surgeon  ;  "  Mr. 

Mortimer,  of Court." — "  What !"  exclaimed  the  elder  of  the  ladies, 

"Mr.  Mortimer,  my  poor  father's  great  oe<  creditor — is  it  he  to  whom  we 
have  been  so  long  indebted  for  everything?"  The  man  laid  his  finger  on 
his  lips,  and  she  was  silent,  but  not  a  word  had  escaped  the  surgeon. 
The  servant  was  sent  away  in  a  coach,  the  surgeon  accompanying  him. 
They  arrived  at  Mr.  Mortimer's,  where,  after  the  confusion  occasioned  by 
the  accident  had  subsided,  the  surgeon  found  that  the  face  of  both  master 
and  man  were  familiar  to  him.  H  I  am  sure  I  am  not  mistaken,"  said  he* 
"  you  are  the  gentleman  who  so  charitably  took  care  of  the  poor  fellow 
that  had  such  a  bad  broken  leg  in  this  neighbourhood,  and  paid  me  for  my 
attendance."  Mr.  Mortimer  assented.  u  Here  is  a  double  discovery," 
said  the  surgeon  to  himself;  and  on  taking  his  leave,  "  Permit  me  to  assure 
you,  sir,"  he  cried,  "  that  I  venerate  you  beyond  any  other  human  being !" 
— At  the  corner  of  the  court  where  Mr.  Mortimer  resided  was  a  shoemaker's 
shop,  kept  by  a  man  who  had  a  wife  and  five  children.  He  was  one  of 
the  most  industrious  creatures  breathing,  and  with  great  exertions  was 
just  able  to  maintain  decently  his  family,  of  whom  he  was  extremely  fond. 
A  younger  brother  of  his  had  come  up  out  of  the  country,  and  obtained 
a  place  in  a  public  office,  for  which  it  was  necessary  to  give  security  ; 
and  he  had  prevailed  upon  his  brother  to  enter  into  a  joint  bond  with  him 
for  two  hundred  pounds.  The  brother  fell  into  vicious  courses,  and  at 
length  absconded  with  all  the  money  he  was  intrusted  with.  The  shoe- 
maker was  now  called  upon  to  pay  the  forfeiture  of  his  bond,  which,  on 
account  of  bad  debts,  and  having  been  lately  drained  of  all  his  ready 
money  to  pay  for  leather,  he  was  unable  to  do;  and,  in  consequence,  was 
sent  to  jail.  The  distress  this  brought  upon  the  family  was  aggravated 
by  the  condition  of  his  wife,  who  was  near  lying-in  ;  and  their  mutual 
affection  was  turned  into  a  source  of  the  bitterest  grief.  He  had  been 
about  six  weeks  in  prison,  without  any  prospect  of  release,  all  his  friends 
and  relations  having  been  in  vain  tried,  when,  one  evening,  the  keeper  who 


A    SECRET    CHARACTER    UNVEILED.  363 

had  treated  him  with  much  compassion,  came  up  to  his  room  with  pleas- 
ure in  his  countenance,  and  said,  "  You  are  free."  The  poor  man  could 
at  first  scarcely  believe  him,  but  finding  him  persist  in  the  truth  of  it,  he 
almost  fainted  away  through  surprise  and  joy.  When  he  was  sufficiently 
recovered  to  reflect  on  the  matter,  he  was  quite  bewildered  in  conjecturing 
how  it  had  been  brought  about.  He  could  only  learn,  that  a  discharge  ol 
the  debt  bad  been  sent  to  the  jail,  and  all  the  fees  and  expenses  there  paid 
by  a  person  whose  name  was  unknown,  but  whose  face  they  were  well 
acquainted  with,  as  he  had  several  times  been  on  the  same  errand  there 
before.  "  0 1"  cried  the  shoemaker,  "  that  I  could  but  know  my  benefac- 
tor !"  He  hastened  home,  where  his  unexpected  appearance  almost 
overwhelmed  his  poor  family.  On  talking  over  the  business  with  his  wife, 
he  learned  that  Mr.  Mortimer's  servant  had  a  few  days  before  been  at  the 
shop,  and  had  been  very  particular  in  inquiring  the  cause  and  place  of  his 
confinement.  This  occasioned  a  strong  suspicion,  for  Mr.  Mortimer's 
character  now  came  to  be  talked  of;  and  soon  after  it  was  changed  into 
certainty  by  a  visit  from  the  keeper  of  the  prison,  who  acquainted  the 
shoemaker,  that  they  had  now  discovered  who  his  benefactor  and  that  ol 
so  many  others  was ;  one  of  their  people  having  chanced  to  be  at  the 
the  sessions-house  when  Mr.  Mortimer  appeared  there  in  behalf  of  the 
lame  man  taken  up  on  suspicion,  and  having  recognised  him  to  be  the 
same  person.  The  shoemaker  was  overjoyed  at  this  intelligence,  but 
was  still  at  a  loss  to  know  in  what  manner  he  ought  to  express  his 
gratitude.  He  was  afraid  of  offending,  by  doing  it  in  a  public  manner, 
as  it  had  evidently  been  Mr.  Mortimer's  intention  to  remain  concealed : 
yet  it  was  necessary  that  his  heart  should  have  some  vent  for  its  emotions. 
He  took  his  wife  and  children,  and  went  to  Mr.  Mortimer's  house,  desiring 
to  speak  with  him.  Being  admitted  into  the  study,  the  poor  man  began 
a  speech  which  he  had  prepared  ;  but  instead  of  going  on,  he  burst  into  a 
fit  of  crying,  fell  on  his  knees,  seizing  one  hand  of  his  benefactor,  while 
his  wife  did  the  same  on  the  other  side,  and  kissing  them  with  the  utmost 
fervency,  both  in  a  broken  voice  implored  endless  blessings  on  his  head. 
The  children  fell  on  their  knees,  too,  and  held  up  their  little  hands.  Mr.  , 
Mortimer  was  moved  and  remained  awhile  silent ;  at  length,  recollecting 
himself,  "  Too  much !  too  much !"  he  cried,  "  Go  home,  go  home,  my 
good  people !  God  bless  you  all !"  and  thus  dismissed  them. 

An  old  clergyman  from  the  country  came  up  to  town  on  business  about 
this  time,  and  paid  a  visit  to  an  intimate  friend  of  the  same  profession. 


361  THIRTIETH    EVENING. 

After  some  mutual  greetings  and  inquiries,  "  Ah !  my  good  friend,"  said 
the  country  clergyman,  our  parish  has  undergone  a  blessed  alteration 
since  you  knew  it !  The  principal  estate  was  sold  some  years  ago  to  a 
gentleman  in  London,  who  is  one  of  those  few  that  are  never  wearied  in 
well-doing.  He  built,  in  the  first  place,  half  a  score  neat  cottages,  where 
all  the  industrious  poor  who  are  past  labour  are  comfortably  maintained  at 
his  expense.  He  endowed  a  free  school  for  all  the  children  of  the  parish 
without  exception,  where  they  are  taught  to  read  and  write,  and  some  of 
the  poorest  are  clothed.  Every  winter  he  orders  the  baker  to  deliver  twice 
a  week  a  large  loaf  at  the  house  of  each  cottager  during  the  hard  weather. 
He  has  frequently  remitted  his  rents  to  poor  tenants  in  bad  seasons;  and, 
in  short,  I  should  never  have  done  were  I  to  enumerate  all  his  deeds  of 
charity.  I  myself  have  in  various  ways  been  much  indebted  to  him,  and 
I. am  well  informed  that  he  contributes  largely  to  the  support  of  an  aged 
dissenting  minister  in  the  parish.  But  what  is  singular,  he  is  very  shy  of 
being  seen,  nor  do  we  know  anything  of  his  rank  and  profession,  or  his 
town  residence ;  nay,  I  believe  we  should  not  have  learned  his  name,  had 
not  the  purchase  necessarily  made  it  public.     It  is  Mortimer." 

"Why,"  said  his  friend,  "  I  have  a  parishioner  of  that  name ;  and  from 
what  I  have  lately  heard  of  him,  I  suspect  him  to  be  the  man." 

"  Could  not  I  get  a  sight  of  him  ?"  replied  the  first. 

"  Probably  you  may,"  said  the  other ;  and  presently,  seeing  him  cross 
the  court,  he  pointed  him  out. 

"  Ah !  that  is  the  blessed  man !"  exclaimed  the  old  clergyman  in  a 
rapture.  And  running  out,  he  went  up,  grasped  him  eagerly  by  the  hand, 
and  poured  out  the  most  affectionate  wishes  for  his  welfare. 

Mr.  Mortimer  now  stood  completely  detected. 

The  world,  however,  was  not  satisfied  with  the  general  knowledge  of 
his  goodness  and  benevolence.  Curiosity  was  at  work  to  discover  his 
connexions,  habits,  property,  employment;  in  short,  the  whole  personal 
history  of  the  man.  One  only  friend,  to  whom  he  intrusted  all  the  secrets 
of  his  heart  and  life,  thought  fit,  after  he  was  removed  from  this  mortal 
state,  to  gratify  the  world  in  this  particular. 

Mr.  Mortimer  was  a  younger  son  of  a  respectable  family  in  the  country, 
and  came  to  London  at  an  early  age,  to  be  educated  for  commercial  life. 
In  this  he  succeeded  so  well,  that  after  going  through  the  different  stages 
of  clerk,  partner,  and  principal,  he  found  himself  possessed  of  a  consider- 
able fortune.    For  sometime  he  made  that  use  of  his  wealth  which  persons 


K 


A  SECRET  CHARACTER  UNVEILED        365 

who  live  within  the  bounds  of  what  is  called  decency  think  permitted  to 
them.  But  the  common  pleasures  of  the  world  palled  daily  more  and 
more  upon  his  taste.  He  found  a  void  which  could  only  be  filled  by 
reading  and  contemplation.  He  grew  fond  of  taking  enlarged  views  of 
mankind,  their  several  conditions,  characters,  and  destinations.  He 
compared  the  higher  classes  with  the  lower,  the  instructed  with  the 
ignorant ;  above  all,  he  examined  himself,  and  inquired  into  the  great 
purpose  for  which  he  was  brought  into  the  world.  In  order  to  augment 
his  sphere  of  knowledge,  he  resolved  to  visit  foreign  countries;  and  having 
no  family  encumbrances,  he  drew  his  affairs  into  a  small  compass, 
relinquished  business,  and  went  abroad.  During  a  course  of  some  years, 
he  was  a  wanderer  through  most  countries  of  Europe,  travelling  chiefly  on 
foot,  avoiding  common  routes,  and  mingling  with  the  mass  of  the  people. 

He  saw,  abroad  as  well  as  at  home,  a  great  deal  of  misery ;  he  saw 
wretchedness  everywhere  close  in  the  train  of  splendour — indigence 
by  the  side  of  prodigality — baseness  under  the  foot  of  authority.  He 
lamented  the  evils  of  the  world  ;  but  whatever  might  be  their  original 
source,  he  saw  that  man  had  within  himself  the  power  of  remedying 
many  of  them.  In  exercising  this  power,  all  duty,  all  virtue  seemed  to 
consist.  "  This,  then,"  said  he,  "  must  be  the  proper  business  of  every 
man  in  this  life.     It  is  then  mine ;  and  how  shall  I  best  perform  it  ?" 

Full  of  these  meditations,  he  returned ;  and  convinced  that  the  great 
inequality  of  rank  and  property  is  one  principal  cause  (though  a  necessary 
one)  of  the  ills  of  life,  he  resolved,  as  much  as  it  lay  in  his  power,  to 
counteract  it.  "  How  few  things,"  thought  he,  "  are  necessary  to  my 
external  comfort !  Wholesome  food,  warm  clothing,  clean  lodging,  a 
little  waiting  upon,  and  a  few  books.  This  is  all  that  even  selfishness 
asks  of  me.     Whose,  then,  is  the  superfluity  V* 

That  he  might  at  once  get  rid  of  the  craving  and  burdensome  demands 
which  opinion  imposes,  he  took  a  house  in  a  part  of  the  town  where  his 
name  was  unknown ;  and  of  all  his  former  acquaintance,  he  only  reserved 
one  or  two  congenial  friends.  He  selected  out  of  the  number  of  his  former 
domestics  one  of  each  sex,  steady  and  confidential,  whose  lives  he  made 
as  comfortable  as  his  own.  After  all  the  expenses  of  his  frugal,  but  not 
scanty  mode  of  living  were  discharged,  there  remained  two  thirds  of  his 
income,  which  he  never  failed  to  bestow  in  secret  charity.  He  chose  that 
his  charities  should  be  secret,  not  only  as  being  utterly  averse  to  all 
ostentation,  but  also  to  avoid  those  importunities  which  might  lead  his 


366  THIRTIETH    EVENING. 

bounty  to  unworthy  objects.  He  would  himself  know  the  real  circum- 
stances of  every  case ;  and  it  was  the  chief  employment  of  his  time,  by 
hunting  into  obscure  corners,  and  searching  out  the  private  history  of  the 
indigent  classes  of  the  community,  to  obtain  exact  information  of  the 
existence  of  misery,  and  the  proper  modes  of  relieving  it.  He  neglected 
no  kinds  of  distress,  but  it  was  his  great  delight  to  relieve  virtuous  poverty, 
and  alleviate  those  keen  wounds  of  fortune  which  she  inflicts  on  those 
who  have  once  participated  in  some  share  of  her  smiles.  Hence  the  sums 
which  he  bestowed  were  often  so  considerable  as  at  once  to  retrieve  the 
affairs  of  the  sufferer,  nor  did  he  think  it  right  to  withdraw  his  sustaining 
hand  as  long  as  its  support  was  needful. 

With  respect  to  his  opinions  on  other  subjects,  his  enlarged  acquaintance 
with  men  and  books  effectually  preserved  him  from  bigotry.  He  well 
knew  in  what  points  mankind  agreed,  and  in  what  they  differed,  and  he 
attached  much  superior  importance  to  the  former. 

So  he  lived — so  he  died  !  injuring  none — benefiting  many — bearing 
with  pious  resignation  the  evils  that  fell  to  his  own  lot — continually 
endeavouring  to  alleviate  those  of  others — and  hoping  to  behold  a  state  in 
which  all  evil  shall  be  abolished. 


Providence,  or  the  Shipwreck,  p.  377. 

EVENING  XXXI. 


A  GLOBE-LECTURE. 
Papa — Lucy. 

Papa.  You  may  remember,  Lucy,  that  I  talked  to  you  sometime  ago 
about  the  earth's  motion  round  the  sun. 

Lucy.  Yes,  papa;  and  you  said  you  would  tell  me  another  time  some- 
thing about  the  other  planets. 

Pa.  I  mean  some  day  to  take  you  to  the  lecture  of  an  ingenious  philos- 
opher, who  has  contrived  a  machine  that  will  give  you  a  better  notion  of 
these  things  in  an  hour,  than  I  could  by  mere  talking  in  a  week.     But  it 

367 


368  THIRTY-FIRST    EVENING. 

is  now  my  intention  to  make  you  better  acquainted  with  this  globe  which 
we  inhabit,  and  which,  indeed,  is  the  most  important  to  us.  Cast  your 
eyes  upon  this  little  ball.  You  see  it  is  a  representation  of  the  earth, 
being  covered  with  a  painted  map  of  the  world.  This  map  is  crossed 
with  lines  in  various  directions ;  but  all  you  have  to  observe  relative  to 
what  I  am  going  to  talk  about,  is  the  great  line  across  the  middle  called 
the  equator  or  equinoctial  line,  and  the  two  points  at  top  and  bottom 
called  the  poles,  of  which  the  uppermost  is  the  northern  the  lowermost 
the  southern. 

Lu.  I  see  them. 

Pa.  Now,  the  sun,  which  illuminates  all  the  parts  of  this  globe  by  turns 
as  they  roll  round  before  it,  shines  directly  upon  the  equator,  but  darts  its 
rays  aslant  toward  the  poles ;  and  this  is  the  cause  of  the  great  heat  per- 
ceived in  the  middle  regions  of  the  earth,  and  of  its  gradual  diminution 
as  you  proceed  from  them  on  either  side  toward  the  extremities.  To  use 
a  familiar  illustration,  it  is  like  a  piece  of  meat  roasting  before  a  fire,  the 
middle  part  of  which  is  liable  to  be  overdone,  while  the  two  ends  are  raw. 

Lu.  I  can  comprehend  that. 

Pa.  From  this  simple  circumstance  some  of  the  greatest  differences  on 
the  surface  of  the  earth,  with  respect  to  man,  other  animals,  and  vegetables, 
proceed  ;  for  heat  is  the  great  principle  of  life  and  vegetation ;  and  where 
it  most  prevails,  provided  it  be  accompanied  with  due  moisture,  nature  is 
most  replenished  with  all  sorts  of  living  and  growing  things.  In  general, 
then,  the  countries  lying  on  each  side  about  the  equator,  and  forming  a 
broad  belt  round  the  globe,  called  the  tropics,  or  torrid  zone,  are  rich  and 
exuberant  in  their  products  to  a  degree  much  superior  to  what  we  see  m 
our  climates.  Trees  and  other  plants  shoot  to  a  vast  size,  and  are  clothed 
in  perpetual  verdure,  and  loaded  with  flowers  of  the  gayest  colours  and 
sweetest  fragrance,  succeeded  by  fruits  of  high  flavour  or  abundant  nutri- 
ment. The  insect  tribe  is  multiplied  so  as  to  fill  all  the  air,  and  many  of 
them  astonish  by  their  size  and  extraordinary  forms,  and  the  splendour  of 
their  hues.  The  ground  is  all  alive  with  reptiles,  some  harmless,  some 
armed  with  deadly  poisons. 

Lu.  0,  but  I  should  not  like  that  at  all ! 

Pa.  The  birds,  however,  decked  in  the  gayest  plumage  conceivable, 
must  give  unmixed  delight;  and  a  tropical  forest,  filled  with  parrots, 
mackaws,  and  peacocks,  and  enlivened  with  the  gambols  of  monkeys  and 
other  nimble  quadrupeds,  must  be  a  very  amusing  spectacle.     The  largest 


A    GLOBE-LECTURE.  3G9 

of  quadrupeds,  too,  the  elephant,  the  rhinoceros,  and  the  hippopotamus, 
are  natives  of  these  regions ;  and  not  only  these  sublime  and  harmless 
animals,  but  the  terrible  lion,  the  cruel  tiger,  and  all  the  most  ravenous 
beasts  of  prey,  are  here  found  in  their  greatest  bulk  and  fierceness. 

Lu.  That  would  be  worse  than  the  insects  and  reptiles. 

Pa.  The  sea  likewise  is  filled  with  inhabitants  of  an  immense  variety 
of  size  and  figure;  not  only  fishes,  but  tortoises,  and  all  the  shelly  tribes. 
The  shores  are  spread  with  shells  of  a  beauty  unknown  to  our  coasts  ;  for 
it  would  seem  as  if  the  influence  of  the  solar  heat  penetrated  into  the 
farthest  recesses  of  nature. 

Lu.  How  I  should  like  to  ramble  on  the  seaside  there ! 

Pa.  But  the  elements,  too,  are  there  upon  a  grand  and  terrific  scale. 
The  sky  either  blazes  with  intolerable  beams,  or  pours  down  rain  in  irre- 
sistible torrents.  The  winds  swell  to  furious  hurricanes,  which  often 
desolate  the  whole  face  of  nature  in  a  day.  Earthquakes  rock  the  ground, 
and  sometimes  open  it  in  chasms  which  swallow  up  entire  cities.  Storms 
raise  the  waves  of  the  ocean  into  mountains,  and  drive  them  in  a  deluge 
to  the  land. 

Lu.  Ah  !  that  would  spoil  my  shell-gathering.  These  countries  may 
be  very  fine,  but  I  don't  like  them. 

Pa.  Well,  then — we  will  turn  from  them  to  the  temperate  regions. 
You  will  observe,  on  looking  at  the  map,  that  these  chiefly  lie  on  the 
northern  side  of  the  tropics ;  for  on  the  southern  side  the  space  is  almost 
wholly  occupied  by  sea.  Though  geographers  have  drawn  a  boundary 
line  between  the  torrid  and  temperate  zones,  yet  nature  has  made  none; 
and  for  a  considerable  space  on  the  borders,  the  diminution  of  heat  is  so 
gradual  as  to  produce  little  difference  in  the  appearance  of  nature.  But, 
in  general,  the  temperate  zones  or  belts  form  the  most  desirable  districts 
on  the  lace  of  the  earth.  Their  products  are  extremely  various,  and 
abound  in  beauty  and  utility.  Corn,  wine,  and  oil,  are  among  their 
vegetable  stores:  the  horse,  the  ox,  and  the  sheep,  graze  their  verdant 
pastures.  Their  seasons  have  the  pleasing  vicissitudes  of  summer  and 
winter,  spring  and  autumn.  Though  in  some  parts  they  are  subject  to 
excess  of  heat,  and  in  others  of  cold,  yet  they  deserve  the  general  praise 
of  a  mild  temperature  compared  to  the  rest  of  the  globe. 

Lu.  They  are  the  countries  for  me,  then. 

Pa.  You  do  live  in  one  of  them,  though  our  island  is  situated  so  far  to 
the  north  that  it  ranks  rather  among  the  cold  countries  than  the  warm 

16* 


370  THIRTY-FIRST    EVENING. 

ones.  However,  we  have  the  good  fortune  to  be  a  long  way  removed  from 
those  dreary  and  comfortless  tracts  of  the  globe  which  lie  about  the  poles, 
and  are  called  the  frigid  zones.  In  these,  the  cheering  influence  of  the 
sun  gradually  becomes  extinct,  and  perpetual  frost  and  snow  take  posses- 
sion of  the  earth.  Trees  and  plants  diminish  in  number  and  size,  till  at 
length  no  vegetables  are  found  but  some  mosses  and  a  few  stunted  herbs. 
Land  animals  are  reduced  to  three  or  four  species — raindeer,  white  bears, 
and  arctic  foxes.  The  sea,  however,  as  far  as  it  remains  free  from  ice,  is 
all  alive  with  aquatic  birds,  and  with  the  finny  tribe.  Enormous  whales 
spout  and  gambol  among  the  floating  ice-islands,  and  herds  of  seals  pursue 
the  shoals  of  smaller  fish,  and  harbour  in  the  caverns  of  the  rocky  coasts. 

Lu.  Then  I  suppose  these  creatures  have  not  much  to  do  with  the 
sun? 

Pa.  Nature  has  given  them  powers  of  enduring  cold  beyond  those  of 
many  other  animals ;  and  then  the  water  is  always  warmer  than  the  land 
in  cold  climates  j  nay,  at  a  certain  depth,  it  is  equally  warm  in  all  parts 
of  the  globe. 

Lu.  Well,  but  as  I  cannot  go  to  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  I  desire  to  have 
nothing  to  do  with  these  dismal  countries.     But  do  any  men  live  there? 

Pa.  It  is  one  of  the  wonderful  things  belonging  to  man,  that  he  is 
capable  of  living  in  all  parts  of  the  globe  where  any  other  animals  live. 
And  as  nothing  relative  to  this  earth  is  so  important  to  us  as  the  condition 
of  human  creatures  in  it,  suppose  we  take  a  general  survey  of  the  different 
races  of  men  who  inhabit  all  the  tracts  we  have  been  speaking  of? 

Lu.  Blacks,  and  whites,  and  all  colours? 

Pa.  Surely.  If  a  black  dog  is  as  much  a  dog  as  a  white  one,  why 
should  not  a  black  man  be  as  much  a  man?  I  know  nothing  that  colour 
has  to  do  with  mind.  Well,  then — to  go  back  to  the  equator.  The  mid- 
dle or  tropical  girdle  of  the  earth,  which  by  the  ancients  was  concluded 
to  be  uninhabitable  from  its  extreme  heat,  has  been  found  by  modern  dis- 
coveries to  be  as  well  filled  with  men  as  it  is  with  other  living  creatures. 
And  no  wonder ;  for  life  is  maintained  here  at  less  cost  than  elsewhere. 
Clothes  and  fuel  are  scarcely  at  all  necessary.  A  shed  of  bamboo  covered 
with  palm-leaves  serves  for  a  house ;  and  food  is  almost  the  spontaneous 
produce  of  nature.  The  bread-fruit,  the  cocoa,  the  banana,  and  the 
plantain,  offer  their  stores  freely  to  the  gatherer ;  and  if  he  takes  the 
additional  pains  to  plant  a  few  yams,  or  sow  a  little  Indian  corn,  he  is 
furnished   with   never-failing  plenty.     Hence    the  inhabitants  of  many 


A    GLOBE-LECTURE.  371 

tropical  countries  live  nearly  in  what  is  called  a  state  of  nature,  without 
care  or  labour,  using  the  gifts  of  Providence  like  the  animals  around  them. 
The  naked  Indian,  stretched  at  ease  under  the  shade  of  a  lofty  tree,  passes 
his  hours  in  indolent  repose,  unless  roused  to  temporary  exertion  by  the 
passion  of  the  chase,  or  the  love  of  dancing  and  other  social  sports. 

Lu.  Well — that  would  be  a  charming  life  ! 

Pa.  So  the  poet  Thomson  seemed  to  think,  when  he  burst  into  a 
rapturous  description  of  the  beauties  and  pleasures  afforded  by  these 
favoured  regions.     Perhaps  you  can  remember  some  of  his  lines  ? 

Lu.  I  will  try. 

"Thrown  at  gayer  ease,  on  some  fair  brow 

Let  me  behold,  by  breezy  murmurs  cooled, 
Broad  o'er  my  head  the  verdant  cedar  wave, 
And  high  palmettoes  lift  their  grateful  shade. 
O,  stretched  amid  these  orchards  of  the  sun, 
Give  me  to  drain  the  cocoa's  milky  bowl, 
And  from  the  palm  to  draw  its  freshening  wine  !" 

Pa.  Delightful !  Think,  however,  at  what  price  they  purchase  this 
indolent  enjoyment  of  life.  In  the  first  place,  all  the  work  that  is  done 
is  thrown  upon  the  women,  who  are  always  most  tyrannized  over,  the 
nearer  a  people  approach  to  a  state  of  nature. 

Lu.  O,  horrible  !     I  am  glad  I  do  not  live  there. 

Pa.  Then  the  mind  not  having  that  spur  to  exertion  which  necessity 
alone  can  give,  moulders  in  inaction,  and  becomes  incapable  of  those 
advances  in  knowledge  and  vigour  which  raise  and  dignify  the  human 
character. 

Lu.  But  that  is  the  same  with  lazy  people  everywhere. 

Pa.  True.  The  excessive  heat,  however,  of  these  countries  seems  ol 
itself  to  relax  the  mind,  and  unfit  it  for  its  noblest  exertions.  And  I 
question  if  a  single  instance  could  be  produced  of  an  original  inhabitant 
of  the  tropics,  who  had  attained  to  eminence  in  the  higher  walks  of  science. 
It  is  their  general  character  to  be  gay,  volatile,  and  thoughtless,  subject 
to  violent  passions,  but  commonly  mild  and  gentle,  fond  of  society  and 
amusements,  ingenious  in  little  arts,  but  incapable  of  great  or  long- 
continued  efforts.  They  form  a  large  portion  of  the  human  race,  and 
probably  not  the  least  happy.  You  see  what  vast  tracts  of  land  lie  within 
this  division  ;  most  of  Africa  and  South  America,  all  the  great  islands  of 
Asia  and   two  of  its  large  peninsulas.     Of  these  the  Asiatic  part  is  the 


372  THIRTY-FIRST    EVENING. 

most  populous  and  civilized ;  indeed,  many  of  its  nations  are  as  far  removed 
from  a  state  of  nature  as  we  are,  and  their  constitutional  indolence  has 
been  completely  overcome  by  necessity.  The  clothing  of  those  who  are 
in  a  civilized  state  is  mostly  made  of  cotton,  which  is  a  natural  product 
of  those  climates.  Their  food  is  chiefly  of  the  vegetable  kind  and  besides 
the  articles  already  mentioned,  consists  much  of  rice. 

Lu.  Are  the  people  all  black  ? 

Pa.  Yes  ;  entirely  or  nearly  so. 

Lu.  I  suppose  that  is  owing  to  the  heat  of  the  sun. 

Pa.  Undoubtedly ;  for  we  find  all  the  shades  from  jet  black  to  tawny, 
and  at  length  white,  as  we  proceed  from  the  equator  toward  the  poles. 
The  African  negroes,  however,  from  their  curled  woolly  hair  and  their 
flat  features,  have  been  supposed  an  originally  distinct  race  of  mankind. 
The  East  Indian  blacks,  though  under  an  equally  hot  climate,  have  long 
flowing  hair,  and  features  not  different  from  their  fairer  neighbours. 
Almost  all  these  nations  are  subject  to  despotic  governments.  In  religion 
they  are  mostly  pagans,  with  a  mixture  of  Mohammedans. 

Lu.  I  think  we  have  had  enough  about  these  people. 

Pa.  Well,  then — look  again  on  the  globe  to  the  northern  side  of  the 
tropics,  and  see  what  a  tour  we  shall  take  among  the  inhabitants  of  the 
north  temperate  zone.  Here  are  all  the  most  famous  places  on  the  earth; 
rich,  populous  countries,  renowned  at  different  periods  for  arts  and  arms. 
Here  is  the  greatest  part  of  Asia,  a  little  of  Africa,  all  Europe,  and 
North  America. 

Lu.  I  suppose,  however,  there  must  be  great  differences  both  in  the 
climate  and  the  way  of  life,  in  so  many  countries? 

Pa.  Extremely  great.  The  southern  parts  partake  a  good  deal  of  the 
character  of  the  tropical  regions.  The  heat  is  still  excessive,  and  renders 
exertion  painful ;  whence  the  people  have  in  general  been  reckoned  soft, 
effeminate,  and  voluptuous.  Let  us,  however,  look  at  them  a  little  closer. 
Here  is  the  mighty  empire  of  China,  swarming  with  people  to  such  a 
degree,  that,  notwithstanding  its  size  and  fertility,  the  inhabitants  are 
obliged  to  exert  the  greatest  industry  to  procure  the  necessaries  of  life. 
Nearly  in  a  line  with  it  are  the  Mogul's  Empire,  the  kingdom  of  Persia, 
and  the  Turkish  dominions  in  Asia;  all  warm  climates  abounding  in 
products  of  use  and  beauty,  and  inhabited  by  numerous  and  civilized 
people.  Here  stretches  out  the  great  peninsula  of  Arabia,  for  the  mos* 
part  a  dry  and  desert  land,  overspread   with  burning   sands,  only  to  be 


A    GLOBE-LECTURE.  373 

crossed  by  the  patient  camel.  Wild  and  ferocious  tribes  of  men  wander 
over  it,  chiefly  supported  by  their  herds  and  flocks,  and  by  the  trade  of 
robbery,  which  they  exercise  on  all  travellers  that  fail  in  their  way.  A 
tract  somewhat  similar,  though  in  a  colder  climate,  is  the  vast  country  of 
Tartary,  stretching  like  a  belt  from  east  to  west  across  the  middle  of 
Asia ;  over  the  immense  plains  and  deserts  of  which,  a  number  of  inde- 
pendent tribes  continually  roam,  fixing  their  moveable  habitations  in  one 
part  or  another,  according  as  they  afford  pasturage  to  their  herds  of  cattle 
and  horses.  These  men  have  for  many  ages  lived  in  the  same  simple 
state,  unacquainted  as  well  with  the  arts  as  the  vices  of  civilized  nations. 

Lu.  Well.  I  think  it  must  be  a  very  pleasant  life  to  ramble  about  from 
place  to  place,  and  change  one's  abode  according  to  the  season. 

Pa.  The  Tartars  think  so ;  for  the  worst  wish  they  can  find  for  man, 
is  that  he  may  live  in  a  house  and  work  like  a  Russian.  Now  look  at 
Europe.  See  what  a  small  figure  it  makes  on  the  surface  of  the  globe  as 
to  size ;  and  yet  it  has  for  many  ages  held  the  first  place  in  knowledge, 
activity,  civilization,  and  all  the  qualities  that  elevate  man  among  his 
fellows.  For  this  it  is  much  indebted  to  that  temperature  of  climate  which 
calls  forth  all  the  faculties  of  man  in  order  to  render  life  comfortable,  yet 
affords  enough  of  the  beauties  of  nature  to  warm  the  heart  and  exalt  the 
imagination.  Men  here  earn  their  bread  with  the  sweat  of  their  brow. 
Nature  does  not  drop  her  fruits  into  their  mouths,  but  offers  them  as  the 
price  of  labour.  Human  wants  are  many.  Clothes,  food,  lodging,  are  all 
objects  of  much  care  and  contrivance,  but  the  human  powers  fully  exerted 
are  equal  to  the  demand;  and  nowhere  are  enjoyments  so  various  and 
multiplied.  What  the  land  does  not  yield  itself,  its  inhabitants  by  their 
active  industry  procure  from  the  remotest  parts  of  the  globe.  When  we 
drink  tea,  we  sweeten  the  infusion  of  a  Chinese  herb  with  the  juice  of  a 
West  Indian  cane;  and  your  common  dress  is  composed  of  materials 
collected  from  the  equator  to  the  frigid  zone.  Europeans  render  all  coun- 
tries and  climates  familiar  to  them ;  and  everywhere  they  assume  a  supe- 
riority over  the  less  enlightened  or  less  industrious  natives. 

Lu.  Then  Europe  for  me,  after  all !     But  is  not  America  as  good  ? 

Pa.  That  part  of  North  America  which  has  been  settled  by  Europeans, 
is  only  another  Europe  in  manners  and  civilization.  But  the  original 
inhabitants  of  that  extensive  country  were  bold  and  hardy  barbarians,  and 
many  of  them  continue  so  to  this  day.  So  much  for  the  temperate  zone, 
which  contains  the  prime  of  mankind.     They  differ  extremely,  howeve^ 


J74  THIRTY-FIRST    EVENING. 

in  government,  laws,  customs,  and  religions.  The  Christian  religion  has 
the  credit  of  reckoning  among  its  votaries  all  the  civilized  people  of  Europe 
and  America.  The  Mahometan  possesses  all  the  nearer  parts  of  Asia, 
and  the  north  of  Africa,  but  China,  Japan,  and  most  of  the  circumjacent 
countries,  profess  different  forms  of  paganism.  The  East,  in  general,  is 
enslaved  to  despotism ;  but  the  nobler  West  enjoys  in  most  of  its  states 
more  or  less  of  freedom. 

As  to  the  frigid  zone,  its  few  inhabitants  can  but  just  sustain  a  life  little 
better  than  that  of  the  brutes.  Their  faculties  are  benumbed  by  the  cli- 
mate. Their  chief  employment  is  the  fishery  or  the  chase,  by  which  they 
procure  their  food.  The  tending  of  herds  of  raindeer  in  some  parts  varies 
their  occupations  and  diet.  They  pass  their  long  winters  in  holes  dug 
underground,  where  they  doze  out  most  of  their  time  in  stupid  repose. 

Lu.  I  wonder  any  people  should  stay  in  such  miserable  places ! 

Pa.  Yet  none  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  globe  seem  more  attached  to 
their  country  and  way  of  life.  Nor  do  they,  indeed,  want  powers  to  render 
their  situation  tolerably  comfortable.  Their  canoes,  and  fishing,  and 
hunting  tackle,  are  made  with  great  ingenuity  ;  and  their  clothing  is 
admirably  adapted  to  fence  against  the  rigours  of  cold.  They  are  not 
without  some  amusements  to  cheer  the  gloom  of  their  condition  :  but  they 
are  abjectly  superstitious,  and  given  to  fear  and  melancholy. 

Lu.  If  I  had  my  choice,  I  would  rather  go  to  a  warmer  than  a  colder 
country. 

Pa.  Perhaps  the  warmer  countries  are  pleasanter;  but  there  are  few 
advantages  which  are  not  balanced  by  some  inconveniences;  and  it  is  the 
truest  wisdom  to  be  contented  with  our  lot,  and  endeavour  to  make  the 
best  of  it.  One  great  lesson,  however,  I  wish  you  to  derive  from  this 
globe-lecture.  You  see  that  no  part  of  the  world  is  void  of  our  human 
brethren,  who,  amid  all  the  diversities  of  character  and  condition,  are 
yet  all  men,  filling  the  station  in  which  their  Creator  has  placed  them. 
We  are  too  apt  to  look  at  the  differences  of  mankind,  and  to  undervalue 
all  those  who  do  not  agree  with  us  in  matters  that  we  think  of  high 
importance.  But  who  are  we — and  what  cause  have  we  to  think  ourselves 
right,  and  all  others  wrong?  Can  we  imagine  that  hundreds  of  millions 
of  our  species  in  other  parts  of  the  world  are  left  destitute  of  what  is 
essential  to  their  well-being,  while  a  favoured  few  like  ourselves  are  the 
only  ones  who  possess  it  ?  Having  all  a  common  nature,  we  must  neces- 
sarily agree  in  more  things  than  we  differ  in.     The  road  to  virtue  and 


ENVY    AND    EMULATION.  375 

happiness  is  alike  open  to  all.     The  mode  of  pursuit  is  various  :  the  end 
is  the  same. 

ENVY  AND  EMULATION. 

At  one  of  the  celebrated  schools  of  painting  in  Italy,  a  young  man 
named  Guidotto  produced  a  piece  so  excellent,  that  it  was  the  admiration 
of  the  masters  in  the  art,  who  all  declared  it  to  be  their  opinion  that  he 
could  not  fail  of  rising  to  the  summit  of  his  profession,  should  he  proceed 
as  he  had  begun. 

This  performance  was  looked  upon  with  very  different  eyes  by  two  of 
his  fellow-scholars.  Brunello,  the  elder  of  them,  who  had  himself  acquired 
some  reputation  in  his  studies,  was  mortified  in  the  highest  degree  at  this 
superiority  of  Guidotto ;  and  regarding  all  the  honour  his  rival  had  acquired 
as  so  much  taken  from  himself,  he  conceived  the  most  rancorous  dislike 
of  him,  and  longed  for  nothing  so  much  as  to  see  him  lose  the  credit  he 
had  gained.  Afraid  openly  to  decry  the  merit  of  a  work  which  had  obtained 
the  approbation  of  the  best  judges,  he  threw  out  secret  insinuations  that 
Guidotto  had  been  assisted  in  it  by  one  or  other  of  his  masters ;  and  he 
affected  to  represent  it  as  a  sort  of  lucky  hit,  which  the  reputed  author 
would  never  equal. 

Not  so  Lorenzo.  Though  a  very  young  proficient  in  the  art,  he  com- 
prehended in  its  full  extent  the  excellence  of  Guidotto's  performance,  and 
became  one  of  the  sincerest  of  his  admirers.  Fired  with  the  praises  he 
saw  him  receive  on  all  sides,  he  ardently  longed  one  day  to  deserve  the 
like.  He  placed  him  before  his  eyes  as  a  fair  model,  which  it  was  his 
highest  ambition  to  arrive  at  equalling — for,  as  to  excelling  him,  he  could 
not  as  yet  conceive  the  possibility  of  it.  He  never  spoke  of  him  but  with 
rapture,  and  could  not  bear  to  hear  the  detractions  of  Brunello. 

But  Lorenzo  did  not  content  himself  with  words.  He  entered  with  his 
whole  soul  into  the  career  of  improvement — was  first  and  last  of  all  the 
scholars  in  the  designing-room — and  devoted  to  practice  at  home  those 
hours  which  the  other  youths  passed  in  amusement.  It  was  long  before 
he  could  please  himself  with  any  of  the  attempts,  and  he  was  continually 
repeating  over  them,  "Alas!  how  far  distant  is  this  from  Guidotto's!" 
At  length,  however,  he  had  the  satisfaction  of  becoming  sensible  of 
progress ;  and  having  received  considerable  applause  on  account  of  one 
of  his  performances,  he  ventured  to  say  to  himself,  ''And  why  may  not  I 
too  become  a  Guidotto  ?" 


376  THIRTY-FIRST    EVENING. 

Meanwhile,  Guidotto  continued  to  bear  away  the  palm  from  all 
competitors.  Brunello  struggled  awhile  to  contest  with  him,  but  at 
length  gave  up  the  point,  and  consoled  himself  under  his  inferiority  by 
ill-natured  sarcasm  and  petulant  criticism.  Lorenzo  worked  away  in 
silence,  and  it  was  long  before  his  modesty  would  suffer  him  to  place  any 
piece  of  his  in  view  at  the  same  time  with  one  of  Guidotto's. 

There  was  a  certain  day  in  the  year  in  which  it  was  customary  for  all 
the  scholars  to  exhibit  their  best  performance  in  a  public  hall,  where  their 
merit  was  solemnly  judged  by  a  number  of  select  examiners,  and  a  prize 
of  value  was  awarded  to  the  most  excellent.  Guidotto  had  prepared  for 
this  anniversary  a  piece  which  was  to  excel  all  he  had  before  executed. 
He  had  just  finished  it  on  the  evening  before  the  exhibition,  and  nothing 
remained  but  to  heighten  the  colouring  by  means  of  a  transparent  varnish 
The  malignant  Brunello  contrived  artfully  to  convey  into  the  vial 
containing  this  varnish  some  drops  of  a  caustic  preparation,  the  effect  of 
which  would  be  entirely  to  destroy  the  beauty  and  splendour  of  the  piece. 
Guidotto  laid  it  on  by  candlelight,  and  then  with  great  satisfaction  hung 
up  his  picture  in  the  public  room  against  the  morrow. 

Lorenzo,  too,  with  beating  heart,  had  prepared  himself  for  the  day. 
With  vast  application  he  had  finished  a  piece  which  he  humbly  hoped 
might  appear  not  greatly  inferior  to  some  of  Guidotto's  earlier  perform- 
ances. 

The  important  day  was  now  arrived.  The  company  assembled,  and 
were  introduced  into  the  great  room,  where  the  light  had  just  been  fully 
admitted  by  drawing  up  a  curtain.  All  went  up  with  raised  expectations 
to  Guidotto's  picture,  when,  behold  !  instead  of  the  brilliant  beauty  they 
had  conceived,  there  was  nothing  but  a  dead  surface  of  confused  and 
blotched  colours.  "Surely,"  they  cried,  "this  cannot  be  Guidotto's !" 
The  unfortunate  youth  himself  came  up,  and  in  beholding  the  dismal 
change  of  his  favourite  piece,  burst  out  into  an  agony  of  grief,  and 
exclaimed  that  he  was  betrayed  and  undone.  The  vile  Brunello  in  a 
corner  was  enjoying  his  distress.  But  Lorenzo  was  little  less  affected 
than  Guidotto  himself.  "  Trick  !  knavery  !"  he  cried.  "  Indeed,  gentlemen, 
this  is  not  Guidotto's  work:  I  saw  it  when  only  half  finished,  and  it  was 
a  most  charming  performance.  Look  at  the  outline,  and  judge  what  it 
must  have  been  before  it  was  so  basely  injured." 

The  spectators  were  all  struck  with  Lorenzo's  generous  warmth,  and 
sympathized  in  the  disgrace  of  Guidotto;  but  it  was  imoossible  to  adjudge 


PROVIDENCE.  377 

the  prize  to  his  picture,  in  the  state  in  which  they  beheld  it.  They 
examined  all  the  others  attentively,  and  that  of  Lorenzo,  till  then  an 
unknown  artist  to  them,  gained  a  great  majority  of  suffrages.  The  prize 
was  therefore  awarded  to  him ;  but  Lorenzo,  on  receiving  it,  went  up  to 
Guidotto,  and  presenting  it  to  him,  said,  "  Take  what  merit  would 
undoubtedly  have  acquired  for  you,  had  not  the  basest  malice  and  envy 
defrauded  you  of  it.  Tome  it  is  honour  enough  to  be  accounted  your 
second.  If  hereafter  I  may  aspire  to  equal  you,  it  shall  be  by  means  of 
fair  competition,  not  by  the  aid  of  treachery." 

Lorenzo's  nobleness  of  conduct  excited  the  warmest  encomiums  among 
the  judges,  who  at  length  determined,  that  for  this  time  there  should  be 
two  equal  prizes  distributed ;  for  that  if  Guidotto  had  deserved  the  prize 
of  painting,  Lorenzo  was  entitled  to  that  of  virtue. 


PROVIDENCE;  OR,  THE  SHIPWRECK. 

It  was  a  dreadful  storm.  The  wind  blowing  full  on  the  seashore, 
rolled  tremendous  waves  on  the  beach,  while  the  half-sunk  rocks  at  the 
entrance  of  the  bay  were  enveloped  in  a  mist  of  white  foam.  A  ship 
appeared  in  the  offing,  driving  impetuously  under  her  bare  poles  to  land  ; 
now  tilting  aloft  on  the  surging  waves,  now  plunging  into  the  intervening 
hollows.  Presently,  she  rushed  among  the  rocks,  and  there  struck,  the 
billows  beating  over  her  deck,  and  climbing  up  her  shattered  rigging, 
"Mercy  !  mercy  !"  exclaimed  an  ancient  solitary,  as  he  viewed  from  the 
cliff  the  dismal  scene.  It  was  in  vain.  The  ship  fell  on  her  side  and  was 
seen  no  more. 

Soon,  however,  a  small,  dark  object  appeared  coming  from  the  rocks 
toward  the  shore ;  at  first,  dimly  descried  through  the  foam,  then  quite 
plain  as  it  rode  on  the  summit  of  a  wave,  then  for  a  time  totally  lost.  It 
approached,  and  showed  itself  to  be  a  boat  with  men  in  it  rowing  for  their 
lives.  The  solitary  hastened  down  to  the  beach,  and  in  all  the  agonizing 
vicissitudes  of  hope  and  fear  watched  its  advance.  At  length,  after  the 
most  imminent  hazards,  the  boat  was  thrown  violently  on  the  shore,  and 
the  dripping,  half-dead  mariners  crawled  out  on  dry  land. 

"Heaven  be  praised !"  cried  the  solitary,  "what  a  providential  escape  !" 
And  he  led  the  poor  men  to  his  cell,  where,  kindling  a  good  fire,  and 
bringing  out  his  little  store  of  provisions,  he  restored  them  to  health  and 
spirits.     "  And  are  you  six  men  the  only  ones  saved  ?" — "  That  we  are," 


378  THIRTY-FIRST    EVENING. 

answered  one  of  them.  "  Threescore  and  fifteen  men,  women,  and 
children,  were  in  the  ship  when  she  struck.  You  may  think  what  a 
clamour  and  confusion  there  were:  women  clinging  to  their  husbands' 
necks,  and  children  hanging  about  their  clothes,  all  shrieking,  crying,  and 
praying !  There  was  no  time  to  be  lost.  We  got  out  the  small-boat  in 
a  twinkling — jumped  in,  without  staying  for  our  captain,  who  was  fool 
enough  to  be  minding  the  passengers — cut  the  rope,  and  pushed  away  just 
time  enough  to  be  clear  of  the  ship  as  she  went  down ;  and  here  we  are, 
all  alive  and  merry  !"  An  oath  concluded  his  speech.  The  solitary  was 
shocked,  and  could  not  help  secretly  wishing  that  it  had  pleased  Providence 
to  have  saved  some  of  the  innocent  passengers,  rather  than  these  reprobates. 
The  sailors  having  got  what  they  could,  departed,  scarcely  thanking 
their  benefactor,  and  marched  up  the  country.  Night  came  on.  They 
descried  a  light  at  some  distance,  and  made  up  to  it.  It  proceeded  from 
the  window  of  a  good-looking  house,  surrounded  with  a  farmyard  and 
garden.  They  knocked  at  the  door,  and  in  a  supplicating  tone  made 
known  their  distress,  and  begged  relief.  They  were  admitted,  and  treated 
with  compassion  and  hospitality.  In  the  house  were  the  mistress,  her 
children,  and  women-servants,  an  old  man  and  a  boy :  the  master  was 
abroad.  The  sailors,  sitting  round  the  kitchen  fire,  whispered  to  each 
other  that  here  was  an  opportunity  of  making  a  booty  that  would  amply 
compensate  for  the  loss  of  clothes  and  wages.  They  settled  their  plan; 
and  on  the  old  man's  coming  with  logs  to  the  fire,  one  of  them  broke  his 
scull  with  the  poker,  and  laid  him  dead.  Another  took  up  a  knife  which 
had  been  brought  with  the  loaf  and  cheese,  and  running  after  the  boy, 
who  was  making  his  escape  out  of  the  house,  stabbed  him  to  the  heart. 
The  rest  locked  the  doors,  and  after  tying  all  the  women  and  children, 
began  to  ransack  the  house.  One  of  the  children  continuing  to  make 
loud  exclamations,  a  fellow  went  and  strangled  it.  They  had  nearly 
finished  packing  up  such  of  the  most  valuable  things  as  they  could  carry 
off,  when  the  master  of  the  house  came  home.  He  was  a  smuggler 
as  well  as  a  farmer,  and  had  just  returned  from  an  expedition,  leaving  his 
companions  with  their  goods  at  a  neighbouring  public-house.  Surprised 
at  finding  the  doors  locked,  and  seeing  lights  moving  about  in  the  chambers, 
he  suspected  something  amiss;  and  upon  listening,  he  heard  strange 
voices,  and  saw  some  of  the  sailors  through  the  windows.  He  hastened 
back  to  his  companions,  and  brought  them  with  him  just  as  the  robbers 
opened  the  door,  and  were  coming  out  with  their  pillage,  having  first  set 


PROVIDENCE.  £79 


fire  to  the  house,  in  order  to  conceal  what  they  had  done.  The  smuggler 
and  his  friends  let  fly  their  blunderbusses  in  the  midst  of  them,  and  then 
rushing  forward,  seized  the  survivors,  and  secured  them.  Perceiving 
flames  in  the  house,  they  ran  and  extinguished  them.  The  villains  were 
next  day  led  to  prison  amid  the  curses  of  the  neighbourhood. 

The  good  solitary,  on  hearing  of  the  event,  at  first  exclaimed,  "  What  a 
wonderful  interference  of  Providence,  to  punish  guilt,  and  protect 
innocence!"  Pausing  awhile,  he  added,  "Yet  had  Providence  thought 
fit  to  have  drowned  these  sailors  in  their  passage  from  the  ship,  where 
they  left  so  many  better  people  to  perish,  the  lives  of  three  innocent  persons 
would  have  been  saved,  and  these  wretches  would  have  died  without 
such  accumulated  guilt  and  ignominy.  On  the  other  hand,  had  the 
master  of  the  house  been  at  home,  instead  of  following  a  lawless  and 
desperate  trade,  he  would  perhaps  have  perished  with  all  his  family,  and 
the  villains  have  escaped  with  their  booty.  What  am  I  to  think  of  all 
this  ?"  Thus  pensive  and  perplexed  he  laid  him  down  to  rest,  and  after 
some  time  spent  in  gloomy  reflections,  fell  asleep. 

In  his  dream  he  fancied  himself  seated  on  the  top  of  a  high  mountain, 
where  he  was  accosted  by  a  venerable  figure  in  a  long  white  garment, 
who  asked  him  the  cause  of  the  melancholy  expressed  on  his  countenance. 
"  It  is,"  said  he,  "  because  I  am  unable  to  reconcile  the  decrees  of  Provi- 
dence with  my  ideas  of  wisdom  and  justice." — "  That,"  replied  the 
stranger,  "  is  probably  because  thy  notions  of  Providence  are  narrow  and 
erroneous.  Thou  seekest  it  in  particular  events,  and  dost  not  raise  thy 
survey  to  the  great  whole.  Every  occurrence  in  the  universe  is  provi- 
dential, because  it  is  the  consequence  of  those  laws  which  divine  wisdonK 
has  established  as  most  .productive  of  the  general  good.  But  to  select 
individual  facts  as  more  directed  by  the  hand  of  Providence  than  others, 
because  we  think  we  see  a  particular  good  purpose  answered  by  them,  is 
an  infallible  inlet  to  error  and  superstition.  Follow  me  to  the  edge  of 
the  cliff."    He  seemed  to  follow. 

"Now  look  down,"  said  the  stranger,  "and  tell  me  what  thou  seest." 
"I  see,"  replied  the  solitary,  "  a  hawk  darting  amid  a  flock  of  small  birds, 
one  of  which  he  has  caught,  while  the  others  escape." — "  And  canst  thou 
think,"  rejoined  the  stranger,  "  that  the  single  bird  made  a  prey  of  by  the 
hawk  lies  under  any  particular  doom  of  Providence,  or  that  those  who  fly 
away  are  more  the  objects  of  divine  favour  than  it?  Hawks  by  nature 
were  made  to  feed  upon  living  prey,  and  were  endowed  with  strength 


380  THIRTY-FIRST    EVENING. 

and  swiftness  to  enable  them  to  overtake  and  master  it.  Thus  life  is 
sacrificed  to  the  support  of  life.  But  to  this  destruction  limits  are  set. 
The  small  birds  are  much  more  numerous  and  prolific  than  the  birds  of 
prey ;  and  though  they  cannot  resist  his  force,  they  have  dexterity  and 
nimbleness  of  flight  sufficient  in  general  to  elude  his  pursuit.  It  is  in  this 
balance  that  the  wisdom  of  Providence  is  seen ;  and  what  can  be  a  greater 
proof  of  it,  than  that  both  species,  the  destroyer  and  his  prey,  have 
subsisted  together  from  their  first  creation  ?  Now,  look  again,  and  tell 
me  what  thou  seest." 

"I  see,"  said  the  solitary,  "a  thick  black  cloud  gathering  in  the  sky. 
I  hear  the  thunder  rolling  from  side  to  side  of  the  vault  of  heaven.  I 
behold  the  red  lightning  darting  from  the  bosom  of  darkness.  Now  it  has 
fallen  on  a  stately  tree  and  shattered  it  to  pieces,  striking  to  the  ground 
an  ox  sheltered  at  its  foot.  Now  it  falls  again  in  the  midst  of  a  flock  of 
timorous  sheep,  and  several  of  them  are  left  on  the  plain  ; — and  see !  the 
shepherd  himself  lies  extended  by  their  side.  Now  it  strikes  a  lofty  spire, 
and  at  the  same  time  sets  in  a  blaze  an  humble  cottage  beneath.  It  is  an 
awful  and  terrible  sight !" 

"  It  is  so,"  returned  the  stranger,  "  but  what  dost  thou  conclude  from 
it?  Dost  thou  not  know,  that  from  the  genial  heat  which  gives  life  to 
plants  and  animals,  and  ripens  the  fruits  of  the  earth,  proceeds  this 
electrical  fire,  which  ascending  to  the  clouds,  and  charging  them  beyond 
what  they  are  able  to  contain,  is  launched  again  in  burning  bolts  to  the 
earth?  Must  it  leave  its  direct  course  to  strike  the  tree  rather  than  the 
dome  of  worship,  or  to  spend  its  fury  on  the  herd  rather  than  the  herdsman ! 
Millions  and  millions  of  living  creatures  have  owed  their  birth  to  this 
active  element ;  and  shall  we  think  it  strange  if  a  few  meet  their  deaths 
from  it?  Thus  the  mountain  torrent  that  rushes  down  to  fertilize  the 
plain,  in  its  course  may  sweep  away  the  works  of  human  industry,  and 
man  himself  with  them ;  but  could  its  benefits  be  purchased  at  another 
price?" 

"  All  this,"  said  the  solitary,  "  I  tolerably  comprehend ;  but  may  I 
presume  to  ask  whence  have  proceeded  the  moral  evils  of  the  painful 
scenes  of  yesterday  ?  What  good  end  is  answered  by  making  man  the 
scourge  of  man,  and  preserving  the  guilty  at  the  cost  of  the  innocent?" 

"  That,  too,"  replied  the  venerable  stranger,  "  is  a  consequence  of  the 
same  wise  laws  of  Providence.  If  it  was  right  to  make  man  a  creature  of 
habit,  and  render  those  things  easy  to  him  with  which  he  is  most  familial. 


PROVIDENCE.  38! 

the  sailor,  of  course,  must  be  better  able  to  shift  for  himself  in  a  shipwreck 
than  the  passenger;  while  that  self-love,  which  is  essential  to  the 
preservation  of  life  must,  in  general,  cause  him  to  consult  his  own  safety 
before  that  of  others.  The  same  force  of  habit  in  a  way  of  life  full  of 
peril  and  hardship,  must  conduce  to  form  a  rough,  bold,  and  unfeeling 
character.  This,  under  the  direction  of  principle,  will  make  a  brave  man; 
without  it,  a  robber  and  a  murderer.  In  the  latter  case,  human  laws  step 
in  to  remove  the  evil  which  they  have  not  been  able  to  prevent.  Wick- 
edness meets  with  the  fate  which  sooner  or  later  always  awaits  it ;  and 
innocence,  though  it  occasionally  suffers,  is  proved  in  the  end  to  be  the 
surest  path  to  happiness." 

"But,"  resumed  the  solitary,  "can  it  be  said  that  the  lot  of  innocence 
is  always  preferable  to  that  of  guilt  in  this  world  ?" 

"  If  it  cannot,"  replied  the  other,  "  thinkest  thou  that  the  Almighty  is 
unable  to  make  retribution  in  a  future  world  ?  Dismiss,  then,  from  thy 
mind  the  care  of  single  events,  secure  that  the  great  whole  is  ordered  for 
the  best.  Expect  not  a  particular  interposition  of  Heaven,  because  such 
an  interposition  would  seem  to  thee  seasonable.  Thou,  perhaps,  wouldest 
stop  the  vast  machine  of  the  universe  to  save  a  fly  from  being  crushed 
under  its  wheels.  But  innumerable  flies  and  men  are  crushed  every  day, 
yet  the  grand  motion  goes  on,  and  will  go  on,  to  fulfil  the  benevolent 
intentions  of  its  Author." 

He  ceased,  and  sleep  on  a  sudden  left  the  eyelids  of  the  solitary.  He 
looked  abroad  from  his  cell,  and  beheld  all  nature  smiling  around  him. 
The  rising  sun  shone  in  a  clear  sky.  Birds  were  sporting  in  the  air,  and 
fish  glancing  on  the  surface  of  the  waters.  Fleets  were  pursuing  their 
steady  course,  gently  wafted  by  the  pleasant  breeze.  Light  fleecy  clouds 
were  sailing  over  the  blue  expanse  of  heaven.  His  soul  sympathized  with 
the  scene,  and  peace  and  joy  filled  his  bosom. 


382  THIRTY-FIRST    EVENING. 


EPILOGUE. 

And  now,  so  many  Evenings  past, 

Our  Budget 's  fairly  out  at  last ; 

Exhausted  all  its  various  store, 

Nor  like  to  be  replenished  more. 

Then,  youthful  friends,  farewell !  my  heart 

Shall  speak  a  blessing  as  we  part. 

May  Wisdom's  seeds  in  every  mind 
Fit  soil  and  careful  culture  find ; 
Each  generous  plant  with  vigour  shoot. 
And  kindly  ripen  into  fruit ! 
Hope  of  the  world,  the  rising  race 
May  Heaven  with  fostering  love  embrace, 
And  turning  to  a  whiter  page, 
Commence  with  them  a  better  age  1 
An  age  of  light  and  joy,  which  we, 
Alas  !  in  promise  only  see. 


THE    END 


J.  A. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 


LOAN  DEPT. 


This  book  is  due  oo  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 
on  the  darejojnWchjenewed. 

Renef- 


lediate  recall. 


MAR  1  2  '65  -3  PHliERLBRARYLOAN____ 


29Apr'55W        JUN  "2  41982 


I  ftf  fiftl  If  ,  RFRK. 


„DUD   SEt2V68 


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